


A Lamp Flame in a Windless Place

by leftofrevolution



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Disordered Eating, Dissociation, Gen, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Dragon Ball Super, except people are assumed to have relatively realistic anatomy, like blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-08-01 15:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftofrevolution/pseuds/leftofrevolution
Summary: Some roads are taken as a forced march.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of Dragon Ball Super.

If there was one thing the last few decades had taught him, it was that getting stronger entailed being endlessly torn apart and rebuilt from the ground up.

As one could easily imagine, a body in a constant state of construction was not a very comfortable place to live—everything always a little bit broken or shredded, the promise of strengthened bone and reinforced muscle only, at best, temporarily fulfilled before being ground again into meal and meat—which was one of many reasons he hadn’t bothered. He had watched his soldiers train in the past, the endless repetition of forms and ki exercises; while they had certainly relished the fruits of their labor, reveling in exerting their newfound powers over their rivals and enemies and inferiors, none of them—with a few exceptions—had ever seemed to enjoy the labor itself.

One of the other many reasons was that training had been pointless. There just had been no one even close to his level, excepting his father, and that-

Well. The point was that there had been no point.

Until there was.

\--*--

Prior to Namek, Frieza had been inside a healing tank exactly once in his life.

A lot had changed since Namek.

While his capital ship was of mostly standard design for its class, one of the renovations he had ordered was adding an exterior door to the reserve medical bay’s private suite. Technically all of his executive staff had both the interior and exterior door codes, but he had made it clear immediately upon his return that ‘private’ suite meant _his_ suite, so his officers had best consider their alternatives carefully before deigning to use it. Thus far, they had decided it best to seek medical care elsewhere.

Which was wise of them. His temper was always at its shortest after training, and if anyone was stupid enough to intrude upon him, it would end very, very badly.

(For them, to be clear. The cleaning robots didn’t care one way or the other.)

Of course, no one ever had, which was why Frieza let the ship’s artificial gravity pull him to the floor as he clicked on the tank’s activation sequence with his telekinesis—the tank’s settings, fortunately, not being so fine as to require differentiation between minor injuries; they’d been coded to the same defaults since he’d requisitioned the suite for his own and he hadn’t yet needed to change them—and closed his eyes. The room was cold. The floor was colder.

Not cold enough, of course—his body was adapted for hard vacuum, barely below freezing hardly registered—but better than nothing.

He had lost feeling in his left arm two hours ago, and he had no particular desire to regain it until spending at least an hour in the tank.

So he sat on the floor, and closed his eyes, and—for just five minutes—let himself breathe. Not too deeply—something dug into his right lung if he expanded his rib cage too much—but it still wasn’t unpleasant, after nine hours outside.

He still couldn’t feel his left arm. He couldn’t feel much of anything.

It was, by a wide margin, the most peaceful part of his day.

And then the healing tank gave the faint sound that indicated it had finished its activation sequence, and Frieza opened his eyes.

“Pathetic,” he said, to no one in particular. He had seen Saiyans train for twice as long and refuse offers of a healing tank with a sneer afterwards, and while he might be loath to take any cues from a race of idiotic masochists, he couldn’t ignore that they had managed to produce Son Goku.

Unfortunately, the plain fact was that, even having once stripped his life of all non-necessities, he didn’t have _time_ to train like a Saiyan. Or like anyone else whose life revolved entirely around getting as strong as possible. Which meant he had to make up the deficiency in other ways.

His innate superiority had gotten him pretty far. But not far enough.

Frieza looked down at his left hand and attempted to curl his fingers into a fist, then sneered as they failed to do so much as twitch. One limb down. But only one.

One more thing the last few decades had taught him: He could always take more than this.

\--*--

It was less than a month after the Tournament that Frieza walked into his quarters late one evening to see Whis inspecting his liquor collection. The angel’s back was to him, but there was no mistaking the height or the hair. Or that strange, deathly stillness, a moment before Whis seemed to realize there was someone else in the room and came to life like someone turning on an uncannily realistic automaton.

All the more uncanny for how Whis’ bright smile when he turned to look at him seemed to utterly devoid of context. Frieza had known, before Earth, that angels existed, but it had been entirely in the abstract; angels were meant to be harbingers of the Destroyer, except Beerus had never used them, never bothered to give Frieza any kind of warning at all. The first time Frieza had ever seen Whis had been on Earth. The first time he had actually _met_ the angel was at the Tournament, and always, always at Beerus’ side.

What right did the angel have to smile, when he knew what his mere presence in Frieza’s quarters meant? “You have so many different kinds,” said Whis, even before the door slid shut. “Anything you’d recommend, Frieza-san?”

Except he couldn’t _sense_ Beerus, not in his front room or his bedroom or anywhere on the ship. Except did that even _mean_ anything, with a god? This was already more notice than he’d ever gotten before.

“Frieza-san?”

Frieza realized belatedly that he was still standing just inside the doorway. “… What?”

Whis gestured to Frieza’s liquor cabinet, something ineffable changing about the cast of his face. “Recommendations?”

 “… I acquired a decent vodka from Zoon this morning, Whis-san,” Frieza said, letting drop from his fingers some warped bits of metal from where he had gripped too hard on the doorframe.

He would be foolish to say that he had never expected to see Beerus’ attendant again. He’d just thought there would be some precipitating event.

But… there was _still_ no sign of Beerus, and the Destroyer would not use the angel to rectify his own earlier mistakes, wouldn’t wait this long before making his appearance.

Which meant that Whis was, for whatever reason, here alone.

Frieza forced himself to relax before walking past Whis to the drinks cabinet. It wasn’t in his nature or upbringing to play host, but there seemed little to be gained from posturing with Beerus’ angel. And, well. Even if it had been on Beerus’ orders, Whis _had_ brought him back from the dead. There had never been any space carved within him to house gratitude, but mere logic pointed to the absurdity of Whis reviving him just to kill him now on his own initiative.

So it was with only a little hesitation that he stood with his back to Whis while he pulled the bottle out of the icebox drawer and poured a double shot each into two tumblers before turning to hand Whis one of the glasses.

Whis took it from his fingers easily, swirling the glass once before taking a sip, then sighing in obvious pleasure. “Oh my, that _is_ quite good. I shall have to persuade Beerus-sama to visit Zoon at some point.”

“It’s from the Crown Distillery,” Frieza heard himself saying, downing half his own glass without really tasting it. He knew little to nothing about clear liquors; his alcohol consumption had been at an all-time low ever since his first resurrection, and even before then he had stuck almost exclusively to wines. The only praise he could really manage for his current drink was that it didn’t burn going down, but he could only assume through Whis’ reaction and an assumed modicum of common sense on the part of Zoon’s king that the vodka was acceptable.

The only reason he even had it was that the leader of every new planet he conquered seemed to find it necessary to present him with something ‘personal,’ but invariably defaulted to something alcoholic. It probably said a lot of what parts of his reputation had persisted past his first death that everyone seemed to think that was the safest kind of gift. “You can have a case of it to bring back to him, if you want.”

Whis smiled at him brightly. “How generous! You sure you won’t miss it?”

“No,” said Frieza, throwing back the rest of his glass. “The king of Zoon was… very hospitable.” There were dozens of cases in the hold, and, well. The planet was his again, wasn't it. If he ever developed a taste for the stuff, there was nothing stopping him from getting more.

“Wonderful,” said Whis, before taking another sip of his own glass, seemingly content to stand there and say nothing.

Frieza wondered if it was rude to sit in the presence of an angel. His father hadn’t really drilled much protocol into him on the subject, beyond ‘do whatever Beerus says, never challenge him, don’t make him angry.’ Common sense dictated extending that advice to Beerus’ attendant, who could resurrect the dead on a whim, but didn’t actually do much to help inform Frieza’s behavior under the circumstances. So he chose not to risk it, and instead just poured himself a few more fingers of the vodka. Sipping it didn’t yield any more of the taste to him; his mouth seemed to have gone numb.

It was only after an agonizing five minutes of Whis nursing his own glass that Frieza managed, “May I ask the reason for your visit, Whis-san?”

“Hm?” said Whis. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He smiled brightly at Frieza again before walking over to the dining table and making himself comfortable, turning expectantly once seated and obviously waiting for Frieza to join him. Which at least answered the question about sitting.

Frieza did, reluctantly. His quarters were spacious by ship standards, but they were still on a spaceship. Having a front room at all was a luxury, and the table was only aspirationally built to seat more than a couple of people. No one as tall as Whis.

Who had apparently no notions of personal space at all, as he leaned uncomfortably close the moment Frieza sat down and said, “Beerus-sama and I were wondering how your empire building was going.”

Frieza blinked, once. “It’s… fine.”

“Any challenges?”

“Not once I convinced them who I was,” said Frieza. The problem with shapeshifting was that most races didn’t, so it had been an irritating five minutes of the idiots who ran Planet Frieza 17 yelling at him about Frieza-sama having been dead for sixteen years, wait wasn’t he alive last year, Frieza-sama had horns, what are you even trying to pull, we’ll kill you for this. Then the strongest of them had broken his hand trying to punch him and it had all gotten very loud until the only one in the room with a modicum of intelligence did a quick data search on his scouter and skimmed Sorbet’s most recent records, and then it had gotten very quiet.

And that had been it, really. He hadn’t even needed to kill anyone. The fool who punched him had nearly driven him to it with his sobbing and apologies, but the smart one—Dashi—had shoved him out of the room after just a few seconds before Frieza had even started seriously considering vaporizing him.

And so it had gone since then. Most of the planets that had left the empire since his first demise needed little more than a personal visit before joining back up with alacrity, usually accompanied by a celebration and immediate agreement that of course we’ll send our strongest warriors to enlist in your army, Frieza-sama, and won’t you take these ten barrels of scotch with you when you leave, with our compliments naturally, only our best for our emperor. The one time someone threatened him with Son Goku—the leader of a minority independence faction demonstrating a decent intelligence network but not the actual intelligence required to make proper use of it—Frieza had laughed in their face and not even bothered killing them (an enterprising up-and-comer of the majority loyalty faction taking care of that for him sometime later in the evening), and there had not been a repeat attempt.

There had been an entertaining thirty seconds on Tazba where the queen’s son had called him a tyrant upon his entry into the throne room (hilariously, as if the brat wasn’t heir to an absolute monarchy himself) then _actually attacked_ him. However, despite Frieza’s subordinates making impressed noises over the boy’s power level, that hadn’t amounted to much besides the prince _also_ breaking his hand upon his fist making contact with Frieza’s face, then the queen weeping and throwing herself to the ground at Frieza’s feet, telling him that her son was only a foolish boy, please, if he needed to kill anyone-

Something in his expression had cut her off mid-sentence, which did wonders both for the mounting pain at his temples and her life expectancy.

In the end, he’d left Tazba with far too much omberry cider, an(other) estate on-planet, and a sullen crown prince. The last gave him an unfortunate amount of déjà vu, but at least Dashi had started briefing everyone in advance to stop. Crying.

Hadn’t he enjoyed that once? Why did it now only-

“Yes, I noticed that,” said Whis, dragging Frieza out of his reverie. “The universal death rate has actually gone noticeably _down_ in the past month.” Like almost everything else Whis did, his beaming was a little bit unsettling. “So much less infighting! Civil wars have ended on Manu, Kanoi, and Gelbo in the past week!”

“… I see,” said Frieza. He had been on Kanoi just three days ago, and he had heard nothing of a civil war, though in retrospect the prime minister and the general of the armies had shared a noticeable antagonism that they had only somewhat managed to suppress.

Whis seemed to study him for a moment before smiling again. “This is a good thing, Frieza-san.”

“Is it?” said Frieza, honestly curious. “You do serve the God of Destruction, after all. I would imagine he would like more… destruction.” It was only belatedly that he realized the vodka was starting to kick in; he was more than four shots in after less than ten minutes, and while once that would have been nothing, he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d gotten drunk. Apparently his alcohol tolerance had suffered in the interim, and he’d completely failed to compensate for either that or the fact that he hadn’t eaten and thus had nothing in his stomach to soak up the alcohol.

That… seemed stupid of him, but Whis just looked amused. “Oh, Beerus-sama appreciates a good explosion as much as the next person, Frieza-san, but the ultimate purpose of a God of Destruction is to destroy only that which puts the development of their universe at risk. They, along with their God of Creation, are meant to keep their universe in balance, and right now Universe Seven is far more at risk due to its _lack_ than due to any active threats or overabundance of weakness.” Whis stared contemplatively into his glass before draining it and setting it on the table with a soft _clink_. “We only have twenty-eight civilization cradle planets left, you know.”

“What?” said Frieza. “That’s impossible. My empire alone has-” he cut himself off as he ran some mental math and realized no, it _didn’t_. His empire counted dozens of solar systems and several hundred planets, and that number would easily double by the time he was finished with his tour of his once-and-future dominion, but the vast majority lacked breathable atmospheres and counted at most a few people stationed at a self-contained outpost for research or mining purposes. There were currently eighty-two planets in his empire with a Level One classification on habitability, over half of which had colonies and most of the rest at least a base, and the count was likely to stabilize somewhere just above one hundred fifty before the year was out. But… worlds that had actually _spawned_ sapient life, not just those that could sustain it?

He had thirteen. And he’d barely break twenty by the time he reached the limits of what his empire’s communications and transportation infrastructure could reasonably support.

“I’m so glad to see you understand the scale of our task,” said Whis, who at some point had summoned over the bottle and was pouring himself more vodka. “And so many of them are _weak_ , too. Barely worth cultivating, in an ideal universe, but unfortunately it will take at least a few millennia until our dear Shin has seeded enough planets for us to start being picky again. So we have to work with what we have.” He gave Frieza a significant look.

“… You want me to stop killing people,” said Frieza. This seemed both obvious and something that needed clarifying, considering how the vodka was starting to muddle everything up in his head. He was beginning to remember why, exactly, he had begun avoiding clear liquors in the first place.

Whis just laughed. “Oh no, of course not! We still have a universal population well over six hundred billion. A few deaths here and there will hardly affect anything, and we understand how an emperor must occasionally make examples. Beerus-sama and I would simply appreciate it if you didn’t destroy populated planets, at least for the time being. Other than that, you seem to be doing a _great_ job.”

Frieza briefly considered asking what Whis considered examples of a great job before deciding against it. “In light of this new information, it does seem like it would be wasteful to eradicate any more races.”

At that, Whis actually _patted him on the back_. “Exactly! Hard to be an emperor of dust, after all.” He threw back his glass with evident enjoyment before setting it back on the table, then stood up and stretched before walking back over to the drinks cabinet, showing no visible signs of inebriation at all. “I believe you mentioned something about a case of Crown, Frieza-san?”

“Under the right cabinet,” said Frieza.

He recognized too late how curt that sounded, but Whis didn’t seem to notice beyond one long, slow blink, just smiling again and gesturing with a hand that suddenly had balanced upon it a wooden box of cloth-wrapped bottles. “Many thanks. Until next time, Frieza-san!”

And then he was gone.

\--*--

“Are you aware that the people of Gelbo are having a religious war?”

“And here I thought they barely finished having a civil one,” said Frieza, without bothering to look up from his commpad.

Then his brain caught up with who he was talking to and he nearly spilled coffee all over himself trying to stand up before putting his mug down. “Whis-san,” he said, then stopped, because he couldn’t think of anything to follow that which wasn’t some irritated variation on _why are you bothering me in my bedroom at three in the morning_.

Whis waved at him cheerily from his desk chair, which seemed a needlessly expansive gesture considering he was sitting less than two meters away. “Sorry to bother you so late, Frieza-san, but I knew you’d be awake. This is _very_ tasty, but it’s strong, isn’t it?” He gestured with his other hand, already occupied by an evidently full coffee mug. Where he might have gotten it, Frieza didn’t know, as he didn’t store any spare mugs in his bedroom. Or his carafe.

It seemed very likely that Whis had been raiding his front room again.

“I am catching up on eighteen years of archived reports,” Frieza said, finally placing his own mug on his bedside table. “The sooner I get that over with, the better.” He had little enough time in his day as it was; getting through the backlog was at least an achievable goal that would free up some space in his schedule for more important things instead of an ongoing, never ending slog like so much of his empire’s bureaucracy.

“Working through the night?” said Whis. “How diligent of you.”

 _What else would I be doing?_ , he thought of asking, but didn’t.

“Anyway,” continued Whis, “It’s the same war, more or less, except the religious extremists are the only ones who think it worth continuing. They’ve started worshipping a being they call ‘Zoonama.’ I wouldn’t normally call such a thing to your attention, but Zoonama is insisting that the advances Gelbo has made over the past few centuries are subverting the natural order. It is demanding that either the Gelboians revert entirely to pastoralism, or it will destroy their current infrastructure with earthquakes should they choose not to comply.”

“Gelbo is a part of my empire,” said Frieza. “Why haven’t they contacted me if some idiot is running around posing as a god?”

“Mm,” said Whis, spooning some cream into his coffee, “The radicals have taken over the spaceport and destroyed all centers of long-distance communication. You wouldn’t find out anything is wrong through normal channels until your representative on-planet failed to send in his report next month, by which point they’ll have executed most of their brightest minds and set themselves back about fifty years.”

That… would be a problem. Gelbo exported not only high-grade healing tank liquid but also some of the universe’s finest artisans. The latter had already mostly gone off planet in pursuit of larger (and wealthier) audiences, but the iyasu root from which the healing liquid was cultivated could only be grown on Gelbo, and the last thing he needed when re-solidifying his hold on his empire was a medicine shortage.

Still, that didn’t explain “Why do you care? You said it yourself that a few deaths will hardly affect anything, and Gelboians are notorious for having weak power levels. Unless they’re planning on a planet-wide genocide, this sort of thing should be beneath you.”

“Ah, Frieza-san,” said Whis, over the rim of his coffee mug, “When I speak of weakness, only a component of that is what you call ‘power level.’ It also relates to how advanced a civilization is, not only technologically, but scientifically and culturally.

“This ‘Zoonoma’ is against the advance of civilization. Forget its ridiculous call to agriculture; the time period its followers are romanticizing was the most oppressive and backwards in the entirety of Gelboian history. That is just as much a threat to Beerus-sama’s work as any self-directed planet destroyer.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Therefore, if you don’t mind…”

“… of course,” said Frieza, and sent off a short message via his commpad to his ship’s captain. “My ship can be there in-”

“Oh no, that is far too long,” said Whis, which was how Frieza discovered it was apparently mid-day on Gelbo when he found himself two seconds later standing in its capital’s square holding nothing but his commpad.

“There it is,” said Whis, unnecessarily pointing with his staff at a large toad thing not fifty meters away screaming at an amassing crowd. Despite the two of them appearing in the middle of it, no one seemed to mark their presence, so Frieza was treated to a uninterrupted thirty seconds about ‘the evils of violating the sanctity of the body’ (rhetoric to justify destroy a cancer research center abutting the square) before he got bored.

“Really?” he asked Whis, who just nodded. Frieza sighed. “Wonderful.” He cleared his throat once before saying, “Excuse me!”

Zoonoma paused before doing a dramatic turn in Frieza’s direction. “Who _dares_ to interrupt the great Zoonoma, ruler of Gelbo?”

The sea of people surrounding Frieza parted immediately, leaving him and Whis standing alone in the middle of the square. “I do,” said Frieza. “You may remember me,” he continued, this time more to the crowd. He nodded at the road to his left. “There was a procession in my honor down that street two months ago.” He had hated it, but Dashi had not yet gotten around to sending out the memo about parades. “Though I suppose at least some of you have short memories, seeing as in the interim you have decided to start venerating a fat blue toad.”

Zoonoma puffed up. “’Fat blue toad’?! I am Zoonoma! I summon the earthquakes-”

Which was when Frieza crushed its internal organs into a fine powder.

“As if that’s difficult,” he said to its corpse, before turning back to the crowd. “ _Really_?”

“My apologies, Frieza-sama,” said an old woman in fine robes standing at the edge of the crowd, shaking off the grip of two younger men before walking closer to Frieza and giving a bow. Frieza vaguely remembered her as Gelbo’s president. “We’ve been having tectonic disturbances lately, and though this could be easily explained by volcanic unrest,” she shot a look of pure venom at the two younger men who had been holding her, “The creature you just killed took advantage of the recent civil strife and claimed it caused the earthquakes because of our hubris.”

Some young idiot, perhaps emboldened by the anonymity of the crowd, shouted, “You have doomed us all! You have slain the bringer of purity! The one who can cause the earth itself to break-”

Frieza slapped his tail once on the ground, and all of the assembled Gelboians was knocked off their feet as the square gave one dramatic rumble before settling.

“As I said,” he said in the ensuing silence, “That isn’t difficult. You can’t go running around worshipping anything with an appreciably higher power level than you, because that is _literally_ ever _-_ ”

Which was when Mount Doma erupted.

\--*--

“I am going to execute the engineers who installed your seismic inhibitors,” said Frieza to the Gelboian president about an hour later.

“Please don’t blame them, Frieza-sama,” said the president, wringing out the hem of her robes. “The Zoonoma faction sabotaged the inhibitors last week. They were working fine before then.”

“Then I’ll be executing _them_ ,” said Frieza.

“If you wish it, Frieza-sama,” said the president, not looking especially bothered by the prospect. “But that is probably unnecessary.”

“Really,” said Frieza.

“You appeared out of thin air, killed their messiah, and defeated a volcano by throwing half of the Mino Ocean on it,” said the president, still wringing out her robe. “Most of Zoonoma’s followers are young fools who don’t remember your initial reign; I think they’re beginning to understanding the depths of their ignorance.” She cast a significant glance at her two former captors; one of them didn’t seem to have moved since Zoonoma had died despite the fact that he was now standing in nearly ten centimeters of water, and the other was vomiting into a garbage can.

“… Fine,” said Frieza, who didn’t really want to go through the headache of figuring out which Gelboians to disintegrate just then anyway. He waited until the president had excused herself to start organizing the cleanup before turning to Whis, who had been smiling at him in a unnerving way since they’d arrived on Gelbo and hadn’t visibly stopped in the past hour. “ _What_ ,” said Frieza, before exhaling harshly through his nose and continuing more calmly, “Is it, Whis-san?”

“Hm?” murmured Whis, a bit dreamily, before visibly shaking himself and turning back to Frieza, the sheer ebullience of his smile impossibly ratcheting up several degrees. “I’m just feeling a bit nostalgic, I suppose. This has all turned out so well!” Whis clapped his hands together in a gesture that on anyone else would look almost childish. “I love it when that happens.”

“If you wanted me to come here so I could stop the capital from being destroyed by a volcanic eruption, you could have done it yourself,” said Frieza. He didn’t know how Whis had judged the timing so accurately, but it was too good to be coincidental, and he wasn’t an idiot.

“Oh no, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “Angels don’t interfere in mortal affairs. Besides, it needed to be you.” When Frieza raised an eyebrow at him, Whis elaborated, “As impressive as it was, there are a handful of other beings in this universe with the psychic ability to do what you just did, but _you_ have a reputation. That will go much further in bringing Gelbo back on the right track than any individual ever could on their own.” He tapped on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Though some of the whisperings among Zoonoma’s former followers are still a bit fanatical. You _might_ end up with a cult here.”

“It would not be the first time,” said Frieza tiredly. He had been amused by the adulation of lesser beings until about his third decade, which was when he started realizing the myriad of downsides. Fear was preferable. Fear was _predictable_ , whereas you could never anticipate how someone would react when confronted with their god. It was true that a well-aimed energy beam always proved a workable solution no matter people’s behavior, but Whis hadn’t been wrong; taking that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion would ultimately make him an emperor of nothing.

It was around the time of that maudlin thought that the president returned, followed respectfully about twenty meters back by a small retinue. “Frieza-sama,” said the president. “We’re arranging a feast for you, to welcome you back to our planet and in gratitude for your actions today. It should be ready within the hour. Do you have any requests?”

“… Coffee,” said Frieza, who was starting to feel exactly how little of it he’d gotten to drink back on his ship before Whis had kidnapped him. Gelbo’s coffee was nothing to brag about, but at least it was strong, and he needed something he was actually willing to consume at the feast; Gelboians had one of those cultures that equated refusal of offered fare with hostility, and seeing as he didn’t actually dislike Gelbo’s president it would be a waste to have to kill her.

“Of course,” said the president. “Shall I also start my staff on airing out your estate?” There was always an estate. He never knew what they expected him to do with all that room, but he suspected the answer was ‘anything you want, as long as it’s far away from population centers.’

“No, that’s unnecessary,” said Frieza. “I’ll be returning to my-” except Whis was gone.

 _And_ he’d dropped his commpad somewhere.

Damn it. “Never mind, yes, have my estate aired out, apparently I’ll be staying here for the rest of the week until my ship arrives.”

“Of course, Frieza-sama,” said the president, who was wise enough not to ask how he had gotten here if his ship wasn’t. “That isn’t quite enough time to organize a proper parade, but-”

“ _No parades_.”


	2. Chapter 2

“My, my,” said a voice that was becoming increasingly familiar, “Do you always train in such desolate places?”

 _How can I hear him in a place with no atmosphere?_ thought Frieza. It was an asinine first thought to have, but he hadn’t expected to be interrupted barely five hours into his training and (more to the point) hundreds of thousands of miles from the nearest habitable body, and at least it was an improvement on his previous, senseless panic response. Whis may have been the Destroyer’s herald, but on his own he usually heralded nothing more than the fact that something was shortly going to go missing from Frieza’s drinks cabinet.

“Because I made one, of course!” said Whis, setting down gently on the surface of the moon. “But truly, it can’t be pleasant for you. Your race is tougher than most, but this can’t be any warmer than negative two hundred degrees. Aren’t you ectothermic?”

“I can generate my own heat with ki,” said Frieza, carefully. It was a little bit unnerving, to find that there was, in fact, an atmosphere where there hadn’t been a few minutes prior. A breathable one.

The moon wasn’t even big enough to support an atmosphere.

“And your own air as well?” said Whis.

“Oxygen stays in my blood for over a week before I start to suffer from oxygen starvation, Whis-san,” said Frieza.

Whis clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “I really do have to find out what Supreme Kai designed your race to survive in a vacuum and write them a nice commendation. They were almost certainly one of the Kai eaten by Buu, of course, but I’m sure the Kai Collective will still appreciate it. Maybe I’ll even suggest to dear Shin that he incorporate some of your specifications into his new seeding projects.”

“… Thank you,” said Frieza.

Whis cocked his head at him. “Why? _You_ didn’t design yourself.”

“I apologize for mistaking that for a compliment, then,” said Frieza.

“You’re forgiven,” said Whis with a wink. Frieza was still trying to process the cheekiness of the angel taking his sarcasm at face value when Whis tapped on his lower lip thoughtfully and said, “By the way, Frieza-san, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been training quite often since the Tournament.”

Coming from Beerus’ personal attendant, that seemed like a dangerous observation. “I got into the habit the last time I was resurrected,” said Frieza, watching Whis’ face for his reaction. It was true—going more than a day without training for at least a few hours left him… anxious, now, for lack of a better word—but it wasn’t the whole of it, and the veracity of his statement didn’t mean it would provide an answer to whatever the angel really wanted to know.

Whis just hummed a little under his breath. “I would have thought that running your empire would keep you occupied.”

“Not as much as it used to,” said Frieza. When Whis raised an eyebrow at him, he elaborated, “My assistant is good at delegating and synthesizing information.” Dashi had proven _very_ good, in fact, even better than Zarbon had been, and Zarbon’s race didn’t sleep. Projects that would have formerly constituted a full day of skimming  paperwork and taking calls now occupied him for only half that, which had been a godsend for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that nostalgia had kept him from remembering how much of the minutiae of running an empire was mind-crushingly dull. “And I am hardly needed to oversee the processing of dead worlds.”

 _You were the one who told me to stop killing populations,_ thought Frieza.

“Very true,” said Whis. “And I am not about to discourage one of Universe Seven’s greatest warriors from working to strengthen himself.” Frieza felt something tightly coiled within his stomach start to loosen, if only slightly, except Whis then continued with, “But _if_ you are going to spend so much of your time doing something, one might ask why you are doing such a terrible job of it.”

That took a second to register. “I’m sorry?” said Frieza, realizing only when Whis’ eyes narrowed that he’d interjected his own edge into his voice; one he usually reserved for warning subordinates they were doing something stupid that was about to get them vaporized.

Except he wasn’t talking to one of his subordinates. His father had never warned him about angels, but considering Whis’ array of powers and his obvious status, his father’s past silence made him more wary instead of less. So he forced himself to breathe out once in a steady stream of air to get his flash of temper under control before continuing, this time more evenly, “Could you please clarify, Whis-san?”

After a considering few seconds, Whis’ smile pushed his eyes back into his habitual squint. “Your form, Frieza-san. It’s poor.” Whis’ squint turned more contemplative. “You’ve never received any instruction, have you. In combat?”

“No,” said Frieza.

“Mm,” said Whis. “It shows in the way you train. And fight.”

Frieza felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Am I not one of our universe’s ‘greatest warriors’? Whis-san.”

“Yes,” said Whis. “But you slide by on raw power and a ridiculously high pain tolerance instead of actually working to improve your skills.”

The twitch quickly migrated to the corner of Frieza’s left eye. “’Slide by’?”

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” said Whis conciliatorily. “You’ve at least tried to commit yourself since your first resurrection. But you don’t actually know what you’re doing.”

It was almost worse that Whis didn’t sound like he was mocking him, his tone matter-of-fact.

“For example,” Whis continued, except now he was _behind_ Frieza, and Frieza felt a hand clench around the tip of his tail, “You still don’t know how to defend your tail.”

His instinct was to yank it out of Whis’ grip. This didn’t work.

“Also,” said Whis, neither seeming to notice his escape attempt nor releasing his hold, “While the cycle of taking yourself apart, then relying on healing tanks and your body’s natural fast recovery to rebuild yourself is certainly improving your power level, not only is it likely starting to compromise your immune system, but you aren’t building the right kinds of muscles, which makes you slower and weaker than you might be otherwise.” Frieza felt a finger poke into his side. “I can tell you aren’t doing enough core exercises, for one-”

His instinct in reaction to _that_ was to try and smash an elbow into Whis’ solar plexus, but even disregarding the retroactive stupidity of such an attempt on someone who could move so fast that he couldn’t even track them, Whis’ grip on his tail completely threw off his balance. His elbow hit nothing but air, and it was between one blink and the next that he found himself with his face being ground into the dirt, the heel of Whis’ shoe pressing down hard between his shoulder blades. And he _still_ hadn’t let go of Frieza’s tail.

Whis sighed theatrically. “See? You were wide open there. If you’d planted your feet a little farther apart and kept your elbow tucked in closer to your torso, you might have-”

“Still missed,” Frieza growled, coughing as he inhaled moon dust. He could hear his heartbeat begin to erratically pulse at his temples, which was _idiotic_ , he wasn’t a _Saiyan_ , getting angry had helped him precisely _never_ , but he _hated_ this, he hated _him_ , this angel who had brought him back from the dead for the sole purpose of humiliating him—traipsing through his life and his only moments of privacy like they were so much refuse to be discarded, abandoning him halfway across the galaxy without so much as a word, as if it were trivial to make the emperor of an already unstable empire disappear for days, like _nothing_ he had worked so hard for had any worth at all—always reminding him that his power was meaningless, no matter what he did, he was always going to be _pathetic_ and _weak_ -

The pressure between his shoulder blades and on the tip of his tail disappeared, and Frieza was pulled to his feet by a hand on his forearm that almost immediately started dusting him off. “My my, your mind does go dark places quickly. I was merely making a point about your training regimen.”

Frieza stared at him. Whis sighed. “Frieza-san, if I wanted to embarrass you, would it make sense for me to do so here? With no one else around to even see it?

“I’ll admit I’ve had a bit of fun at your expense, but the reason I am here is to rectify an error- which does _not_ mean kill you, by the way,” as apparently Frieza had completely failed to suppress his flinch. “You need martial arts training. I can teach you.” He stared at Frieza expectantly.

Frieza stared back incredulously. “ _Can_ you?”

Whis blinked. “Oh, did you not know? I am Beerus-sama’s martial arts teacher. And I’ve trained both Goku-san and Vegeta-san.” He tapped on his lower lip thoughtfully. “In fact, come to think of it, I’ve taught all of this universe’s self-raised mortal-born gods. Except you, of course, but now is the chance for me to complete the set!” He beamed.

Frieza felt his left eye twitch again.

Whis just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You look as if you need some time to process this.” He glanced down at the moon’s planet. “That is Planet Frieza 35, isn’t it? I’ve heard good things about its vineyards.”

“The Winter’s Night white is highly rated this year,” Frieza heard himself say.

Whis beamed again. “Wonderful!”

And so it was two seconds later that Frieza abruptly found himself standing next to Planet Frieza 35’s overseer, who had almost certainly known he was in the system but had obviously expected more warning for a personal visit then to come face-to-face with his emperor in the midst of swallowing a mouthful of the newest vintage of Chilled Snow.

Frieza graciously forgave the man for the fifteen seconds it took him to finish coughing before he saluted and said, “Frieza-sama! I wasn’t- er, I am humbled by your presence and I apologize for the informal trappings of-”

“It’s fine,” said Frieza. “I-” Whis was still standing next to him with a hand on his shoulder. Damn it. “ _We_ are here for a case of the 780 Winter’s Night.” The overseer nodded, obviously confused but equally obviously not wanting to ask any questions, though as his eyes flickered downward before returning to Frieza’s face, Frieza remembered he had been training for five hours before Whis showed up and then shoved into dirt. “… And the use of your baths.”

\--*--

“Do you have a palace on every planet in your empire?” Whis asked curiously as Frieza walked out onto the terrace.

Frieza glanced around. “This is just a base.”

“Do all of your bases have a spa?” said Whis. He had already broken open one bottle of the Winter’s Night out of the case on the table and seemed to be a few glasses in, but as Whis handed Frieza his own glass as soon as Frieza came over to the table—as he could still the phantom weight of Whis’ foot grinding into his back—Frieza made the executive decision to ignore the breach in etiquette.

 “The ones on planets with naturally occurring water sources do,” said Frieza, sniffing at the white.

“And the terrace?” said Whis, glancing out at the view of the vineyards.

“This isn’t a military base,” said Frieza, taking a sip. It needed to breathe a bit more, but his team of sommeliers hadn’t been wrong. It was a bit more flowery than he generally liked, but the crispness somewhat offset that, and the long finish spoke to its quality even if it wasn’t strictly speaking to his taste. “It doesn’t need to be defensible.”

“Ah, Frieza-san,” said Whis, his smile as always obvious as much in his eyes as his voice, “So considerate with your subjects.”

“ _I_ didn’t design them,” said Frieza. That was the Aka twins— _had_ been the Aka twins, as they had apparently died at some point (he would have to ask Dashi who his new chief architect was)—though it was Zarbon who had insisted on making spas a regular feature. Something about preventative medical care for stress-related injuries, and he hadn’t seen the point in denying what was realistically a rather trivial expense.

“Mm,” said Whis, looking back out at the vineyards as he spread a soft cheese over a thin slice of bread taken from a hors d'oeuvre platter on the table. “How much wine does this planet produce annually?”

“A billion hectoliters with an average crop,” said Frieza. “On the moon you called me a god.”

Whis blinked at him over his cheese spread, then tittered into his hand. “Oh Frieza-san, don’t read too much into it! Any mortal that reaches a certain plateau of strength technically becomes a god, if only because those who attain that power level but don’t manage to purify their ki into divine energy disintegrate themselves as their mortal forms stop being able to handle their own ki output.”

“So I am a… god in my golden form, then,” said Frieza. It was… an interesting thought. ‘God-Emperor Frieza’ had a nice ring to it, but it also had the ring of the kind of hubris his father had warned him about, usually in the same breath as mentions of Beerus the Destroyer.

“No, you’re a god all the time,” said Whis. He paused momentarily to take a bite of his appetizer before saying, “Haven’t you noticed you can detect my ki?”

“I learned to sense ki after the first time I came back from the dead,” said Frieza, not sure what this had to do with anything.

Whis shook his head. “Frieza-san, non-gods can’t sense angels at all. You may be more actively _using_ god ki in your so-called golden form, but once achieved, godhood is a passive state. If it wasn’t, my ki right now would be invisible to you.” He _tsked_ sympathetically. “You truly are completely self-taught, aren’t you.”

“I don’t know why you are trying to make that sound like an insult,” said Frieza, taking a second sip of his wine, which really had greatly improved once it had been given a few minutes to breathe.

“No, no,” said Whis, finishing off his appetizer. “It’s impressive, of course. It’s just also a limitation. It’s like you’re stumbling around in a dark cave without a map. It’s amazing you’ve made it as far as you have! But you could have come much further, much faster, _and_ without having run head first into several walls, if you’d had someone to guide you on your way.”

“If what you told me is true, I think I’m doing fairly well for myself, seeing as I achieved godhood in four months,” said Frieza.

“Yes, I know,” said Whis, not even looking at him; the angel instead was focusing his attention on assembling several small sandwiches out of the ingredients on the platter. “And you almost killed yourself doing it at least five times.”

Frieza opened his mouth to refute this, then closed it. There… _had_ been a few incidents, near the end. His own ki had started to sting, worse when he was pushing himself but never unnoticeable, like it was trying to claw its way out of his skin. He had spent the week before achieving his golden form coughing up blood, every moment not spent training in a healing tank.

All of the doctors had just told him he was working too hard.

He should probably execute them.

“I wouldn’t blame them too much, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “It isn’t like they would have reason to know mortal bodies have a ki threshold, considering how rare it is that anyone ever exceeds it. It isn’t even a set amount; you’ve been improving yours through training, for example.” He finished assembling the sandwiches on the platter before sliding it towards Frieza with an encouraging expression.

“I’m not hungry,” said Frieza. “… thank you.”

“Mm,” said Whis. “You _are_ though. Your race may be able to function longer than most without food, but you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning and you burned through _those_ calories ages ago.” He _tsked_ again. “Your disregard for your body’s signals may stand you in good stead in fights to the death, but otherwise it does you no favors.” He cocked his head to the side. “In fact, based on your training patterns since your first resurrection, I’m fairly sure that in your hurry to surpass Goku-san, you’ve managed to work yourself into an eating disorder.”

“I- what?” said Frieza. “That’s ridiculous.”

“On average, you train for ten hours a day, every day,” said Whis. “But you don’t eat enough, or drink enough water, and you sleep on average three hours a night despite requiring at least six, likely due at least in part to the insomnia caused by everything else. Your migraines have become so chronic that you don’t even know you have them, but they exacerbate your insomnia _and_ your poor dietary habits, which have entered a feedback loop with your migraines that is doing a slow but extremely effective job of destroying you.”

Frieza felt the stem of his wine glass crack in his hand. “I’m _fine_.”

“You are _crippling_ yourself,” said Whis. “Which I have decided is personally irritating, so it is going to stop.”

“Are you _giving me orders_?” asked Frieza incredulously.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” said Whis. “You’ve taken them from Beerus-sama before.”

‘Do whatever Beerus says. Never challenge him. Don’t make him angry.’

He wasn’t strong enough to disregard that, but Whis was no Destroyer God. Whis-

Had utterly crushed him just the same. And could give an atmosphere to a barren moon. And bring back the dead. And sometimes, the way his aura flickered…

“Well,” said Whis, when Frieza didn’t respond immediately, “I suppose there is nothing stopping you from eating after we arrive.”

“What are you talking ab-” And the terrace was consumed in a flash of shimmering light.

\--*--

The next few minutes were… disorienting. Frieza would have fallen once reality stopped breaking around him long enough that there was ground to fall _on_ , if it weren’t for Whis catching him by the arm. “Sorry,” said Whis once Frieza shook him off, not actually sounding all that sorry, “I’m told Warp can be a bit disconcerting the first few times.” Somehow Whis had managed to not only bring along both the case of wine and the hors d'oeuvre platter but the tablecloth beneath them, now spread on the ground as a makeshift blanket. The assembly placed together on the edge of the lake gave the strange impression of Whis having planned for a picnic.

The vista and gravity wasn’t dissimilar from several worlds in Frieza’s empire, but it only took looking up to know he was far outside of its borders. The sky was an alien dusty rose filled with dozens of eerily smooth moons, and the horizon was dominated by trees far larger than anything he had ever seen before, the trunks alone looking to reach nearly a kilometer in height. The stars weren’t visible, but Frieza knew he wouldn’t recognize them even if they were. “Where are we?”

“Beerus-sama’s planet,” said Whis.

It was amazing how having actually met Beerus had done a lot to lessen the mystery around the Destroyer but almost nothing to dispel the bone-deep, instinctive terror that shot through him upon hearing the god’s name. He actually had to swallow a few times before he managed, “Beerus- his- he _lives_ here?”

“Mmhm,” said Whis. “Now, I’m not saying you have to eat _all_ of the sandwiches, but-”

“ _Why would you bring me here_?”

 “The planet was designed with the training of gods in mind, so I…” then Whis actually looked at Frieza’s face… and burst out laughing. “Oh, Frieza-san, you needn’t worry about Beerus-sama! He’s asle-”

“ _Whis_!”

“Oh, never mind.”

The god in question landed in the clearing mere seconds later, his eyes narrowed in obvious irritation. “Whis, I can’t find my- what is _he_ doing here?” Beerus’ distinctive glare took no time at all to shift from the angel to Frieza, and Frieza felt every single one of his muscles seize up under the weight of the Destroyer’s gaze.

Whis was not similarly affected. “I’m training him, of course!”

Beerus turned his glare back from Frieza towards Whis, and Frieza found himself gasping at the sudden lessening of pressure. “‘Training him’? Training _Frieza_?”

Whis seemed unperturbed. “I told you after the Tournament that I was thinking about it, and if you ever saw him training on his own, you would agree. It was the most depressing thing.”

Beerus snorted. “That doesn’t explain why you brought him _here_. Goku and Vegeta are bad enough!”

“He needs a proper training location _more_ than Goku-san and Vegeta-san, you know how poor his ki control is. I train him seriously anywhere else and he’s liable to destroy a solar system before we’re even done warming up.”

He hadn’t been insulted so much in his hearing since the Tournament. He kept on waiting to feel some sort of emotional reaction to it, except apparently his brain had off-lined all function in favor of freezing like a prey animal caught under a searchlight.

“Besides,” Whis continued, “You should see the wine he brought!”

Beerus’ ears visibly perked up. “Wine?”

“780 Winter’s Night,” said Whis, gesturing towards the case on the grass. “It’s _very_ good.”

Beerus’ expression turned considering, and he stalked over to the case before pulling out a bottle and slicing off the neck with a claw, sniffing once at the opening. “Hm. Smells good. Flowery.”

Whis nodded. “The finish is nice too!”

“Hm.” Beerus tilted back the bottle and swallowed. And swallowed. There was a good fifteen seconds of silence as he downed the entire bottle before he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and dropped the bottle carelessly on the ground. “My, that _is_ tasty. You were right that the PTO definitely has the edge when it comes to drinks, Whis.

“This is even better than that vodka you sent me earlier, and that was great,” Beerus said, this time directly to Frieza. The god’s mood had visibly mellowed, though it was only a few seconds before he was frowning again. “I didn’t like the coffee, though. It was far too bitter.”

What? “I never-” started Frieza, before he saw Whis making a cutting motion over Beerus’ head and abruptly remembered how his carafe had been missing from his front room after Gelbo. “-thought to send along milk and sugar. My apologies, Beerus-sama.”

“Hmph.” Beerus didn’t sound appeased, but he didn’t look actively irritated anymore either, and his ears perked up again as he eyes roamed back to the case of wine. “Are those sandwiches?”

“They’re not from Sam’s Sandwich Shop,” said Whis, discordantly overlapping with Frieza’s own “You can have them.”

Beerus squinted at both of them. “Are they good, though?”

“Not really,” said Whis.

“So you’re trying to feed me bad food, then?” Beerus said to Frieza, his tail twitching behind him in a way Frieza didn’t know how to read.

“He’s not trying to feed you anything, Frieza-san was only being polite,” said Whis. “They are _supposed_ to be for him.” Whis stared at Frieza pointedly. “Make that definitely an eating disorder, by the way. I have never seen anyone so resistant to the thought of lunch when their body is so obviously at the stage of cannibalizing muscle mass. You must have lost five kilograms since the Tournament, and you didn’t have any body fat to lose _then_ either.”

“I don’t like eating,” said Frieza shortly, willing his tone polite but hopefully curt enough to cut off further inquiry.

Apparently he didn’t hit the mark. “ _What_ ,” said Beerus. “ _Why_?”

Because he’d spent twenty months missing half of his intestines, surviving entirely off of intravenous fluids and hate. Because his only attempt at a meal after his first resurrection had seen him vomiting for three hours, the healing tank having done nothing to wipe the memory of just how _wrong_ eating now felt, of how long it had been since he’d tasted anything but metal and blood.

Because he was tired of his body betraying him.

None of which was Whis _or_ Beerus’ business. “I just- don’t.”

“Right,” said Whis, “I am putting you on a meal plan effective starting now.”

“No,” said Frieza.

“This isn’t a debate, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “Your caloric intake isn’t even enough to handle a sedentary lifestyle, and considering the intensity of your training regimen, your body would have completely broken down already if your race weren’t so resiliently built. As it is, you are on track for catastrophic failure within only a couple of years, and I will _not_ watch one of my students blatantly sabotage themselves.”

Frieza felt his nails digging into his palms. “I am _not_ your student. You just _showed up_ , and _kidnapped_ me, _again-_ ”

At which point Beerus slapped him in the back of the head hard enough to knock him to the ground. “How in Hell are you an even bigger idiot than Goku? At least _he_ is smart enough to know what a boon it is to be personally trained by an angel. _He_ came begging for it, with gifts, and here you are trying to turn Whis down when he _offers_ to train you?

“I thought you wanted to become stronger than Goku, but you certainly aren’t going to catch up with him going on as you are now.” A cloth-covered foot nudged him in the side. “And Whis is right. You have lost weight. You were always a tiny thing, but I couldn’t count your ribs before.”

“Low blood sugar _would_ explain a lot,” mused Whis from somewhere above him as Frieza struggled to his hands and knees, still more than a little stunned.

“Mm,” and Frieza was hauled back to his feet by a spindly grip on one shoulder, Beerus’ face only centimeters from his own. “Listen: you are going to eat those mediocre sandwiches. You are going to _continue_ to eat whatever Whis tells you to eat. You will, in fact, take every order from him as if it comes _directly_ from me.

“Is that clear?”

‘Do whatever Beerus says.’

“I-”

The grip on Frieza’s shoulder tightened. “ _Is that clear_?”

‘Never challenge him. Don’t make him angry.’

“… yes.”

Beerus let go, as carelessly as he had with the wine bottle, and Frieza would have hit the ground again if it weren’t for the sudden replacement of Beerus’ hand with Whis’ on his shoulder. “I’ll track down the GodTube remote on my own. Try not to be too loud,” Beerus said to Whis, then picked up the case of wine and flew off.

“Hm,” said Whis a few seconds later, “That was a bit harsh of him, but he isn’t wrong.” The push he gave Frieza towards the makeshift blanket wasn’t rough by any means, but even so, Frieza felt himself stumble before he caught his balance. When he turned back around to face Whis, the angel was frowning at him thoughtfully. “I’ll start you on something a little lighter than those sandwiches, though. How do you feel about applesauce?”

Frieza stared at Whis uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before the question finally sunk in. It was… strangely hard to think. “… I don’t know what that is.”

Whis frowned at him again, before flickering and reappearing on the tablecloth with a stacked tower of small cups balanced in his left hand. “Come over here.”

Frieza came and stood next to Whis.

“Sit down.”

Frieza sat down.

Whis put the stack of cups down in front of him. “It’s a kind of mashed fruit. This isn’t really even enough for a meal for you, but, well, it’s a start.”

Frieza stared at the cups.

Whis sighed and crouched in front of him. “Frieza-san, I’ll admit I’m at a bit of a loss. You clearly have the drive to improve, and I _know_ you’re educated enough to understand how important diet is to supplementing a proper training menu.” When Frieza didn’t say anything to this, Whis sighed again. “Right. I’m going to assume some kind of mental block. Eat the applesauce. If you manage to keep that down, I want you to eat the sandwiches in three hours.”

“I’m not hungry,” Frieza murmured. He mostly just felt a little nauseous, and for some reason his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, a slight tremor that was barely perceptible but proved impossible to ignore.

“Yes, you are,” said Whis gently. “Eat the applesauce, Frieza-san.” He stood up. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Then he left. Frieza didn’t watch him go.

The applesauce didn’t taste like anything, but at least it didn’t hurt going down, either.

Whis hadn’t returned yet by the time he was done. Frieza briefly considered exploring the area, but that risked running into Beerus again. And it wasn’t like it was a hardship to stay in the clearing. It was warm, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. Perhaps he could just sit there, at least for a little while.

\--*--

“Well,” said a voice above him, “I suppose lesson number two was going to be about the importance of getting enough sleep.”

Frieza was on his feet and in a defensive position before he even fully remembered where he was.

Whis stared at him from the edge of the tablecloth, looking amused. “You are cute when you’re asleep, you know? You curl up into a little ball.”

Frieza did not dignify this comment with a response. It didn’t help that he was still feeling a little lethargic. “How long?”

“Ten hours,” said Whis. “I came by once earlier, but it seemed a shame to interrupt you. Being in the sun seems to have done you a world of good. Why in the universe do you keep the temperature in your quarters so low if you sleep better warm?”

“I don’t like sleeping,” said Frieza, fighting off a yawn.

“You dislike an awful lot of necessary bodily functions,” said Whis. “What is it this time? Nightmares?”

Frieza scowled at him. Whis merely smiled back in response. “If even a fraction of those have to do with the aftermath of Namek, have you ever considered that sleeping cold is probably contributing to them? Floating for nine days in the vacuum of space after having lost the majority of your blood volume, with not even enough ki to keep yourself warm… when you consider that your race doesn’t even fall unconscious when you go into shock, that can _not_ be a pleasant memory.”

What followed had been worse. He hadn’t even had the mind-dulling grace of shock, then.

Not that Whis had any right to know that. “Should I be eating the sandwiches now?”

Whis’ nose wrinkled. “Oh no, I tossed _those_ out hours ago. You can’t eat cheese and meat that’s been out in the sun for ten hours, that’s gross.” He pulled a steaming bowl out from behind his back and held it out towards Frieza. “Instead I got you this!”

Frieza stared down into the bowl, which had noodles and various other unidentifiable ingredients floating in some sort of brown broth. “… What is it?”

“It’s miso ramen with pork!” Whis said. At Frieza’s blank look, Whis coughed once and said, “It’s a noodle soup with meat in it. Very hearty, but I asked them to go light on the spices.”

“’Them’?” said Frieza, but when Whis just thrust the bowl under his nose again, he sighed and took it. “So do I… drink it…?”

“You… can,” said Whis, by his wince meaning ‘no, but I forgot the correct eating utensils.’

Drinking soup out of a bowl like a barbarian was beneath his dignity.

But then, most of the past eleven hours had been beneath his dignity. And the soup did smell… good.

It smelled _very_ good.

Which was odd, because he couldn’t remember the last time a meal had smelled appealing. He wondered if Whis had spiked it with something.

Except looking at Whis’ expectant expression, he doubted he could get out of eating it even if the angel _had_ spiked it, so he just sat cross-legged back on the tablecloth and took a careful sip.

And was hit with the sudden and overwhelming realization that he was absolutely _starving_.

“Not so fast, Frieza-san!” said Whis, grabbing the other side of the bowl and pulling it away. “You’re going to make yourself sick eating like that.”

Frieza glared at him, which probably didn’t have the intended effect considering he still had a number of noodles dangling from his mouth. It took a few seconds for him to chew and swallow before he could reply, “What does it matter? That will happen whether I eat quickly or not.”

Whis stared at him with a strange expression. “… Perhaps you should be executing your doctors, Frieza-san, if they have failed to address such an issue after over half a year.”

Frieza shrugged and looked out over the lake, something oddly uncomfortable about the weight of Whis’ gaze. “I’ve seen no reason to use them since I’ve come back.”

When the bowl appeared back under Frieza’s nose, Frieza didn’t waste any time taking it, even as Whis commented dryly, “The fact that the emperor of a significant percentage of the universe doesn’t have a dedicated physician seems like an oversight, considering how your empire can’t seem to survive your absence.”

Frieza snorted around a mouthful of noodles, in response to which Whis raised an eyebrow at him. “You laugh as if I’m wrong.” When Frieza forewent replying in favor of eating more of the noodles, Whis sighed. “I suppose I _have_ already appointed myself your nutritionist in addition to your martial arts teacher. Most of your health problems can be traced back to your diet anyway.”

“Is there more of this?” said Frieza, putting the empty bowl on the ground.

“In the universe? Certainly,” said Whis. “For you? No. If you haven’t kept down solids since your resurrection, I’m not going to rectify that problem by giving you too much at once.

“In fact, I don’t think starting you on your training today is a good idea either. Strenuous exercise after eating a large meal is a bad idea at the best of times, and it doesn’t become a better one if it’s been that long since you even _had_ a meal.

“We’ll start tomorrow.”

Frieza frowned up at him. “So what-”

Which was when he was blinded again by light.

By the time it faded, he was back in the front room of his quarters, and Whis barely paused long enough to give him a jaunty wave before disappearing again in that same light.

For a few, blissful seconds, it was utterly silent. And then his commpad beeped.

_You have 427 messages._

Oh, right. He’d scheduled an executive staff meeting for today, hadn’t he.

\--*--

Despite the fact that his command ship was ostensibly well insulated, he could hear the sounds of people arguing well before he made it to the conference room. Probably because the idiots hadn’t even bothered closing the door.

He was running over an hour late, but when he heard his own name mentioned, he stopped at the intersection before the turn into the conference room to listen.

“What point do you think sending out search parties will serve? He could be anywhere in the system.” Dashi sounded frazzled, which was interesting mostly because he never was.

“If you hadn’t ordered our scouters specced to ignore Frieza-sama’s ki, we could just track him that way!” Captain Kitori, as loud as always. He reminded Frieza of Ginyu, which was probably why the man had yet to start rubbing him the wrong way despite the unnecessary volume.

“You know we can’t use scouters otherwise within a million kilometers of Frieza-sama without them exploding. If Dashi hadn’t given the order, I would have insisted on it myself.” Chief Scientist Pura, obviously having been forced to repeat herself several times.

“A million kilometers would narrow it down!” Kitori again.

“If Frieza-sama would just start wearing a scouter again-” Hm, he didn’t recognize that voice.

“Feel free to tell _him_ that.” Pura again.

“We have no time to be arguing! Dashi, I can have my men mobilized-”

“Catastrophizing the situation isn’t helping. He’s gone missing before.” Dashi again.

“Last time he told me where he was going!”

“It’s only been six hours since his expected check in, and we know he was fine ten hours ago. He probably just lost track of time. When he comes back-”

 “ _If_ he does. What if he’s dead? Again?” He didn’t recognize that one either. Must be someone new.

“Will you stop saying that!” Dashi again. Make that definitely frazzled. He had known the man six months and not once had ever heard him raise his voice above his usual flat monotone. “Do you have any idea what Frieza-sama would do if he-” Well, as if he was going to ignore an opening like _that_. Frieza smiled, then stepped around the corner.

Kitori, at the far end of the conference table, saw him first, and his ears immediately perked up from where they had been laying flat against his head. “Frieza-sama!”

Walking into the room, Frieza kept smiling and leaned back against the doorframe. “Oh no, don’t mind me. By all means, _give me some ideas_.”

No one said anything; the loudest sound in the room was Pura’s usual nervous habit of tapping against the side of her commpad with a stylus. Frieza glanced around the table. There were only two people present who were unfamiliar, one being a Zalt and the other a Beppa. Zalts’ voices trilled and Beppas’ did not, which meant…

“No?” he said to the room. “Alright.” And disintegrated the Beppa. “For your information,” he said to the Zalt conversationally, walking around to the head of the table and sitting down. “I don’t wear a scouter because they break.”

The Zalt nodded hurriedly, staring at the pile of ashes that was what remained of the Beppa. “Of- of course, Frieza-sama.”

“By the way, who was that?” said Frieza to Dashi.

Dashi blinked once, slowly, but he seemed to be relaxing back into his usual placid self. “A poor hiring decision, Frieza-sama.”

“Obviously,” said Frieza, and made the decision not to press further. All things considered, he was in a remarkably good mood—his stomach wasn’t bothering him at all—and watching his staff squirm didn’t have its usual appeal. “Now, I believe we were starting with calling in the mortgage on Planet Frieza 112. Or have the Brench actually started making their payments?”

\--*--

When he returned to his quarters late that evening, someone had set the temperature in his bedroom up sixty degrees and then quite deliberately broken the thermostat.

Considering the extraordinarily short list of who that someone might have been, Frieza considered the likelihood of the act of vandalism being repeated should he have the thermostat repaired (high), his willingness to just eject Kitori from the captain’s quarters and take them over (also high, but not a long-term solution), and his actual desire to lower back down the temperature (not… as high as it would have been yesterday).

In the end, he went to bed, and slept through until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One line is stolen wholesale from Dragon Ball Abridged. I don't love this chapter, but eh, pushing through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it weren't obvious before, this story is not compliant with the new Broly movie (though I've heard it's good). 
> 
> As a note, thanks to being lucky enough for NeurotropicAgentX (you should read their Dragon Ball fic, it is _so good_ ) to agree to be a character/plot editor for this fic, chapters 1 and 2 have seen some edits (major for chapter 1, more minor for chapter 2), so you might want to reread at least chapter 1 before continuing with chapter 3. Thanks!

“Alright, your form is starting to get sloppy again. Time for a break.”

Frieza considered protesting—they couldn’t have been at it for more than two hours—except he was having trouble getting enough air into his lungs.

He’d habitually trained in space since his resurrection because there was less chance of him accidentally destroying something he would find difficult to replace; he hadn’t realized until Whis how much it had been limiting his movements to have to compensate for working with only the limited amount of oxygen in his blood.

Of course, according to Whis, he had been ‘doing nearly everything wrong’ during his training anyway. Not focusing on the correct muscle groups. Not taking breaks. Not eating enough. Not sleeping enough. Overworking. Not actually learning any combat skills.

“This is quite different from training Goku-san and Vegeta-san,” Whis had told him, when he had asked what the angel had been teaching the Saiyans. “ _They_ at least had already undergone martial arts instruction before I met them. With you, I’m going to have to start with the basics.”

Which apparently consisted of telling Frieza to try and hit him and then critiquing literally everything he did.

“Stop tensing up your shoulder before you punch. And take a bigger step forward and twist with your torso into the punch. You’re not getting any power the way you’re doing it now.”

“Keep your chin down!”

“Frieza-san, you need to close with me if you want to negate my reach advantage.”

“You’re leaving your tail open again. Keep it low if you’re not using it.”

And when Frieza didn’t correct immediately, Whis had apparently zero compunctions about manhandling him ‘to show him what he was doing wrong.’

Considering how little he appreciated criticism and how much he hated being touched, he lasted through about ten minutes of this before slapping Whis’ hands away and saying, “ _Will you just_ \- stop.”

Whis raised an eyebrow at him. “My, you are delicate, aren’t you.”

Frieza glared at him.

Whis sighed. “I thought you’d appreciate a more active form of learning, but we can break this down. I’ll show you a proper punching form for your size and build, and then you will replicate it- hm- let’s say thirty thousand times for each side, with an additional ten times for every time you get it wrong. The first thousand times you should take slow, just so I can critique your form, but after that you should engage in it at a speed as if you were fighting an opponent. We can start on other forms of attack after.”

“You want to teach me how to punch,” said Frieza.

“Well you obviously don’t know how,” said Whis.

The next few minutes were as excruciating as the ten minutes that preceded them, except finally Whis said, “Alright, I think you’ve got it down,” and just let him go at it.

It was exceedingly boring, but at least it was repetitive enough that he just let his body take over after a while and could think on other things. The Brench had not, in fact, resumed their payments on their smallest colony, so Dashi had sent off a follow up notice, but the Brench would likely ignore it—they’d always acted like they deserved special treatment because one of their race was a member of the Ginyu Force, and it wasn’t nearly as cute now that Jeice was eighteen years dead. Besides that, Planet Frieza 112 was prime real estate, and he had other uses for it if the Brench wouldn’t pay up. He’d have to send in the debt collectors fairly soon to get everyone cleared off-

“I am always impressed by your rate of improvement, Frieza-san,” said Whis, sipping at a glass of brumfruit sangria at a small patio table not ten meters away. “Let’s increase the difficulty a bit, shall we?”

At which point Frieza staggered as he felt some gigantic force shove down on top of him. “What-?”

Whis blinked at him. “Have you never trained in high gravity before, Frieza-san?”

“None of the inhabited planets in my empire have gravity greater than fifteen times Standard,” said Frieza through gritted teeth. This was- significantly more than that.

“Well,” said Whis, taking another sip of sangria, “You’re still standing, so it looks like I judged your tolerances correctly.” Frieza stared at him. Whis stared back. “What are you just standing there for, Frieza-san? You still have nineteen thousand punches per side to go.”

He made it through six thousand of them—and tacked on an additional two thousand to the count—before Whis called for the break.

Except Whis still didn’t dial down on the increased gravity, so when Whis tossed a water bottle at him, it actually hit him in the face before he managed to catch it.

“… Maybe you should sit down, Frieza-san,” said Whis.

Frieza just glared at him again and brought the water bottle up to his mouth, watching with disgust as his arm shook from the mere effort of holding what had to be only two liters of water.

“Let me rephrase that,” said Whis. “Sit down, Frieza-san.”

Frieza considered glaring at him for a third time, but in the end just flopped gracelessly into the grass, the increased gravity winning out before he had lowered himself even halfway to the ground. It was still incredibly hard to breathe, and concentrating on that overwhelmed any other thoughts he might have had.

“Right,” said Whis, after what was probably five minutes but felt like significantly less. “Time for you to finish your set, Frieza-san.”

The pervasive burning in his legs from the effort of standing up was far from the most painful thing he had ever felt. But when his basis of comparison was multiple limb amputation, that wasn’t saying much.

“Remember your form, Frieza-san!” said Whis.

In the end, the punch count had increased from thirty thousand to forty by the time Whis announced himself satisfied. Frieza had stopped being able to even feel his arms about twenty minutes before he was done, so when Whis finally let up the gravity, he had nothing to catch himself with as the rapid shift made him lose his balance.

He had made it through all five stages of grief for the loss of his dignity and resigned himself to this planet being determined to see him fall on his face by the time a hand caught him by the arm with his head less than half a meter from the ground.

The hand wasn’t Whis’.

“Why do you always get started so ridiculously early?” grumbled Beerus at Whis, not even looking at Frieza as he towed him towards the angel.

“It’s nearly ten, Beerus-sama,” said Whis.

“Yes,” said Beerus, shoving Frieza into the chair opposite Whis, “And you’ve been out here for _hours_.”

“I suppose that means it’s a good time for brunch,” said Whis, and pulled out a wrapped box from beneath the patio table, which he opened to show a few dozen fish-shaped pastries. “Eight-type variety pack of taiyaki!”

“Eight types?” said Beerus, leaning over the box and picking up one of the pastries lightly between two fingers.

Whis nodded enthusiastically. “Azuki, custard, chocolate, cheese, sweet potato, grilled fish, gyoza, and pork sausage!”

“Hm,” said Beerus, his tail twitching behind him as he bit the head off one of the so-called taiyaki, “A bit dry.”

Whis pointed to the pitcher on the table. “Frieza-san brought brumfruit sangria.”

Frieza had not brought brumfruit sangria. Whis had kidnapped Frieza from a reception on Watrin preceding a trade summit between the planets of the North Quadrant. The fact that Frieza had been pouring himself a glass of sangria at the bar when Whis grabbed him was incidental.

Frieza did not say any of this.

“Well in that case,” said Beerus, and hummed in appreciation when Whis handed him his own glass. “I love a good brumfruit, they’re so tangy.”

Whis nodded in agreement. “The fruit used for this is very fresh, too!”

“Well?” Beerus said, addressing Frieza for the first time as he took another bite of a taiyaki, “Aren’t you having any?”

Frieza hadn’t expected any of it to be for him. Also, “I’m not especially hungry, Beerus-sama.”

“Not _this_ again,” said Beerus, licking gooey brown taiyaki filling from his fingers.

“I’ve already had breakfast,” said Frieza. The health shake had been as vile as ever, but he’d known he’d be attending the trade summit reception later in the day where the alcohol was fairly inescapable, and the idea of getting accidentally drunk in public by drinking on an empty stomach had made his skin crawl.

Whis peered at him over his glass of sangria. “It’s late evening Galactic Standard.”

“I’m fine,” said Frieza.

Beerus frowned, delicately cutting a fish-filled taiyaki in half with his claws. “You’re being very irritating. Are you _trying_ to be contrary?”

“No,” said Frieza.

“Then stop _being_ contrary,” said Beerus, and shoved over his plate towards Frieza. “Eat.”

That was an unambiguous order.

That simplified things, at least.

The worst part was, the taiyaki _did_ smell very good. It just also smelled faintly sickening.

“Well,” said Whis, after Frieza picked up the bisected fish taiyaki from the plate—distantly thankful that the feeling in his arms had almost completely returned and his hands were only minutely shaking—and utterly failed to force himself to eat it, “Nausea is often caused by fasting too long, which for you has become a self-sustaining habit. The fish is spiced with ginger and the pork sausage with mint, which should help, but after that we’ll be starting you on your meal plan.”

“Wonderful,” said Frieza unenthusiastically, peering at the innards of the fish taiyaki.

“Alright,” said Beerus suddenly, “this is just getting painful,” and reached over to shove the entirety of the half taiyaki into Frieza’s mouth, clapping his hand over the lower half of Frieza’s face as he attempted to cough. “Chew,” he ordered, his face too close. Frieza did, with a little bit of difficulty around the grip on his jaw. “Swallow.” Frieza did. Beerus made a disgusted sound and pulled his hand away, only to focus his attention on cutting up another half dozen taiyaki and dumping them on the plate. “For the love of me, I know you’re barely out of diapers, but having to teach you how to eat is ridiculous.”

“I _know_ how to eat,” said Frieza, resisting only with effort the urge to rub the ghost of the Destroyer’s hand off his face.

“Could have fooled me,” said Beerus, and stared demonstrably at the pile of taiyaki now covering Frieza’s plate.

The ridiculously blatant attempt at manipulation would have been hysterical if there was any realistic outcome to the next few minutes besides Frieza eating more of the taiyaki. The fact that Beerus smirked when Frieza picked up a piece of a pork sausage taiyaki and put it in his mouth—like he had actually tricked Frieza into something—made Frieza want to spit it at him, except any sense of satisfaction would likely only have a lifespan measured in seconds before Beerus chose to make him pay for it.

It would also be a waste of delicious food. Now that he could focus on the taste of the taiyaki, the pork had a different, more aromatic flavor than it had in the ramen, likely due to the purported mint, which lent the meat a near-sweetness that lingered pleasantly on the tongue. Where _did_ Whis find such things?

“Delectable, isn’t it?” said Beerus, still radiating smug satisfaction. He pointed at one of the taiyaki leaking a red filling. “Azuki is the best, of course. You should try that next.”

“Beerus-sama!” exclaimed Whis. “Eating sweets on an empty stomach will just make him sick! You should stick to the sweet potato, gyoza, grilled fish, and pork sausage for now,” he said to Frieza. “You can try the dessert flavors after our second bout of training.” The angel almost sounded like he thought the prospect of dessert would act as some kind of incentive.

“I don’t eat sugar,” said Frieza, taking a bite of the taiyaki Whis had called ‘gyoza.’ The filling’s texture was bizarre—almost like undercooked dough—but the aftertaste had a sharp pungency to it that wasn’t unpleasant.

“You don’t eat _anything_ ,” said Beerus in exasperation. “No wonder you’re so short.”

Whis looked similarly unimpressed. “Frieza-san, you were having a sangria right before I brought you here.”

“I was _attempting_ to have a sangria,” said Frieza, who hadn’t even gotten to taste it before Whis snatched his glass and the pitcher out of his hand. “And I never said I didn’t drink it.”

“Now you _are_ being deliberately contrary,” grumbled Beerus around a mouthful of the red filling taiyaki.

“Also I think that’s long enough for a brunch break,” said Whis, pulling a chronometer out of a pocket in his robe and glancing at it before snapping it shut.

Beerus stared at Whis balefully. “It’s been less than ten minutes, and he’s hardly eaten anything.”

“Training on a full stomach is nearly as bad as an empty one, Beerus-sama, you know that,” said Whis cheerfully. “As I said, he can have more when we’re done.” Whis pushed himself out of his seat and walked back over to the designated training area before turning and staring at Frieza expectantly.

Frieza stared back, then looked at Beerus. Taking every order from Whis as if it came directly from Beerus became more complicated when the angel seemed to be openly contradicting his master.

“Just go,” said Beerus sullenly, before pointing at Frieza. “You _will_ be trying the azuki when you’re done, though.”

“… As you say, Beerus-sama,” said Frieza, then stood up and walked over to Whis. “So? What now?”

“Kicks!” said Whis, and by the glint that appeared the angel’s eye, Frieza was fairly sure some of his trepidation had made itself known on his face.

\--*--

Whis’ training stayed repetitive and exhausting during the ten days that followed, but Frieza ended up minding that less than he’d thought he would. He was sleeping better than he had in memory, and at least with the food Whis provided, not only had his appetite returned but his digestive system was being unexpectedly, pleasantly cooperative.

Honestly, for all of his initial annoyance at the interruption, spending his evenings during the trade summit on Beerus’ planet mostly proved a relief. Every summit event past sundown was social anyway, and the only people who dared approach him during the various plays, parties, and other frivolities were sycophants—baldly (and badly) trying to curry favor—and, rarely, Dashi—who usually just wanted him to sign something and was, for all his value, not nearly as prone to entertaining gossip as Zarbon _or_ Dodoria had been. Everyone else gave him a wide berth, and after making his appearance at whatever event was hosted by the planet who had proposed the least stupid policies that day, having somewhere to _go_ meant he didn’t just end up drinking alone in his room.

There were many things he missed from Before—his aides, Ginyu, even a fragile sense of invulnerability, sometimes his father when he was feeling especially maudlin—but that habit was not one of them.

Of course, this also meant that he didn’t find out until the morning that Planet Frieza 112 had slaughtered all of the debt collectors he had sent and declared its independence from the Empire.

Planet Brench _itself_ had not done so, Dashi was quick to explain. The Brench had either not been looped in on its colony’s plans or gotten cold feet the moment they received a call from Frieza’s personal assistant, because their chancellor swore up and down that they had no idea what was happening. Which was less than ideal for them and less than believable to Frieza, considering said colony had been and still was led by a member of the Brench royal family.

“And they killed _Miyaki_?” said Frieza, still not entirely awake despite having consumed three cups of coffee (possibly because the caffeine had yet to be absorbed through the four eggs, two pieces of toast spread with ralnut butter, and the entire brumfruit that had constituted his breakfast; Whis, as it turned out, had been entirely serious about the meal plan).

Dashi nodded. “Yes, Frieza-sama. And since everyone exceeding his power level is assigned to your command ship, Captain Kitori is asking your permission to go handle the problem while we finish out the trade summit.”

“… No,” said Frieza. Miyaki had been profoundly irritating, which was why he hadn’t been given a command ship posting, but he had also been one of the top five strongest fighters in the empire. This didn’t mean as much as it would have twenty years ago, but according to scouter reports, his power level had at least hovered somewhere around Dodoria’s. Someone who could kill him _and_ his team… “He can start preparing the ship, but this is the first truly interesting thing to have happened since my return, and Planet Frieza 112 is close by. I’ll attend the keynote meetings for the next two days remotely and see to this myself.”

Planet Brench offered to send backup. As Planet Brench was considerably farther away and the only Brench at the trade summit had trivial power levels, Frieza told Dashi to decline. “Seeing as it is Queen Ketchu’s youngest offspring who seems to be responsible for this mess, I’m not sure I’d trust any support they sent along anyway. Tell them we’ll be addressing their… negligence for their colony at a later date. Feel free to include the skeptical intonation.”

“I’ll do my best to do it justice, Frieza-sama,” said Dashi, sounding exactly as monotone as ever.

“… Don’t hurt yourself,” said Frieza, finding himself missing Zarbon and Dodoria all over again.

\--*--

There was an army on planet waiting when they arrived. It wasn’t a large army—maybe four thousand—but it was impressive considering the population of Planet Frieza 112 numbered only eight times that and his command ship was staffed by a comparatively paltry four hundred eighty-three.

Less impressive was the actual power arrayed. Captain Kitori actually sighed in disappointment after they’d finished the initial scanning of the planet from orbit. “And here I was hoping for a decent fight. There’s someone on planet stronger than Miyaki alright, but they still aren’t any _good_.”

The Tazban prince—whose name Frieza continually forgot, but a quick check of the roster quickly told him was Uiro—took a step up and skimmed the results himself over Kitori’s shoulder. “Hey, _I’m_ stronger than this guy!” He was practically vibrating with excitement as he grabbed Kitori by the arm. “Let me fight him, captain!” For all of the brat’s sullenness when he had first been brought onto the ship, his hero worship of Kitori had been immediate and total, if not completely undeserved. Had Kitori been born five years earlier, he likely could have fought for and won any position on the Ginyu Squad that didn’t belong to Ginyu himself.

Considering what had happened to the Ginyu Squad, though, it was probably just as well that he hadn’t.

….Probably just as well that Shisami had hated him and had him exiled to an obscure outpost before Frieza’s first resurrection, too. Talent was thin enough on the ground these days as it was.

Kitori, for his part, just laughed in response to Uiro’s enthusiasm and clapped the Tazban on the shoulder. “Well, I suppose you haven’t gotten a real fight yet. It should be good experience for you.” It was only then he seemed to remember that Frieza was in the room. “Uh, with Frieza-sama’s permission, of course.”

“Do what you want,” said Frieza, oddly feeling almost as disappointed as Kitori looked. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting.

He _did_ land on the planet, however, if only because it would have felt foolish to come all of this way and then not at least observe the goings on, but he made sure to immediately fly out to a bluff some distance away—which, as was common on Planet Frieza 112, was stripped in interlocking layers of bright yellow and green due to iron sulfide and chlorite permeating the sediment before the shifting of tectonic plates some millions of years ago had shoved everything up and sideways—to watch and just turned on his commpad to listen in through his soldiers’ scouters, since he knew otherwise he wouldn’t get a decent show. People’s reactions tended to become one-note once they knew he was in the area, and he wanted to glean _some_ entertainment out of this trip.

The beginning of Prince Sauza’s speech, at least, was suitably self-important for a would-be freedom fighter addressing fewer than two hundred opponents in the middle of a barren wasteland, if not a little disconcerting; for all that Frieza knew that Jeice had been born on the oldest Brench colony and not on Planet Brench itself, he always found himself expecting other Brench to speak with Jeice’s swallowed word ends and bizarre slang, and to hear flawless High Standard come out of a Brench’s mouth always threw him off.

Frieza had never met Prince Sauza—the man had been an adolescent the first time he died, and off planet the last time Frieza had visited Planet Brench three months ago—but with his straight blond hair, orange eyes, blue coloration, and his height—only a few centimeters taller than Frieza himself—he superficially looked almost identical to his older brother. Prince Ponzu, however, was first and foremost a diplomat, and despite his aristocratic accent and decent vocabulary, Prince Sauza was obviously not.

Diplomats, for example, usually didn’t open with, “I see some maggots have come to play.” (Saiyan diplomats had been, as often was the case, the exception.)

The Brench didn’t get much more than a few sentences further into his speech, however, before Uiro tried to punch him. And missed, Sauza tilting his head just enough that Uiro’s fist slide past his ear by millimeters. Uiro attempted to follow up with a knee to Sauza’s gut, but Sauza deflected almost contemptuously before letting himself drop ten meters to the ground.

Sauza’s army visibly shifted behind him, but Sauza just chuckled. “If the brat wants a go at me, I could do with a laugh before I kill them all.”

“I’m not a brat!” said Uiro. “I am Uiro, Crown Prince of Tazba, and I am stronger than you!”

“Funny,” said Sauza. “The only Crown Prince Uiro of Tazba _I’ve_ heard about attacked Frieza himself not half a year ago in an attempt to free his people from the tyrant’s rule. You just seem to be another of his lackeys.”

Coming from a man whose family overthrew a republic three hundred years ago in favor of a monarchy with a constitution so thin that you could see through it (speaking to a prince of a planet with no representative government at all, at that), that was a bit rich.

Uiro seemed to be thinking much the same, for all that he expressed it less eloquently. “Says _you_!” Then he tried to punch Sauza again.

Considering Uiro’s power level registered over three thousand clicks higher than Sauza’s, what followed was the most unexpectedly one-sided battle Frieza had ever seen. Uiro was, unquestionably, stronger than Sauza. He was also faster than Sauza. And yet he never managed to land a single solid hit, Sauza either deflecting or dodging entirely ever attack Uiro threw at him.

Admittedly, even the deflections seemed to hurt the Brench—he was visibly bruised on his arms after only a couple of minutes—except that Uiro was still getting the worst of it, every one of Sauza’s attacks aimed directly and accurately at one of Uiro’s weak points. By the time Uiro finally drew blood—cutting a thin line across Sauza’s left shoulder—the Tazban was down one working arm, bleeding in one eye, and was wheezing from where Sauza had punched him—twice—in the throat.

Sauza just glanced at his bleeding shoulder expressionlessly before looking back at Uiro, one of his hands beginning to glow. “You’re a decade too soon to think you could fight me, boy. Or anyone else, for that matter, seeing as it looks like no one ever taught you how to fight at all.” Then he stuck the hand into Uiro’s face. “Oh well, too late now.”

Which was when Kitori punched the Brench in the face, sending him back into a nearby hill with enough force to replace it with a small ravine.

“Captain…” Uiro coughed.

Kitori didn’t look away from the Brench. “Back the fuck up, kid. Looks like there’s a decent fight here after all!”

“Probably a better one than you expected,” came from Sauza’s voice from the dust, before he walked out of it with a smirk on his flawless, unmarked face. “Probably also a… shorter one.” And every single scouter in the area started to go crazy.

Kitori stared at his own in obvious confusion. “What the-”

“You know,” said Sauza conversationally as he walked towards Kitori, “I really didn’t expect this to turn out so neatly. I thought killing Miyaki would lure at least _one_ of Frieza’s elites here, but not only is his strongest warrior standing in front of me along with his little protégé, but my scouter tells me that Ocha is in orbit above us right now. In less than two days, fate has given me the chance to kill every one of Frieza’s remaining followers with a power level above twenty thousand. Once I’m done here, there will be nothing between me and your emperor stronger than wet paper.” The glow in his right hand, which had never fully retreated, suddenly elongated into a bright purple, crackling edge. “So don’t worry, I’ll make this quick. Wouldn’t want to miss the trade summit, after all.”

Kitori dodged the ki bomb Sauza tossed left-handed at his feet, flying backwards in an arc to attempt to keep Sauza in his line of sight. Which was apparently exactly what Sauza expected, because the Brench was already waiting right in his flight path.

“Captain!” Uiro saw Sauza before Kitori did, but the Tazban also wasn’t quick enough to do anything about it as Sauza smirked and shoved his ki blade through the back of Kitori’s neck.

Or tried to, because Frieza telekinetically froze him with the blade tip about a centimeter from Kitori’s nape.

“Well,” said Frieza, walking out of the dust cloud raised by Sauza’s ki bomb—he had been some three hundred odd meters away, but it wasn’t like anyone here could have seen him move—and making a show out of dusting off his hands. “That certainly was a fun five minutes, I must say. What did he clock in with, captain? Eighty thousand? Ninety?”

“One hundred seventy, my lord,” said Kitori, obviously still a bit shaken.

Frieza actually blinked. Apparently he still had some work to do on refining his ki sense. “That actually is pretty good.” He walked up to Sauza, who he still had frozen a few meters off the ground. “Still not _impressive_ , really,” not in a universe where Earth existed, “But I could see why you would be a bit arrogant with a power level like that. But you must have thought rumors of my power were _greatly_ exaggerated to believe that you would be enough to handle me on your own.”

For all that Sauza could barely move, his face had managed to twist itself into what Frieza was happy to imagine was complete disbelief. “How… could we… not… detect you…?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not able to hide my ki as you did,” said Frieza, chuckling lightly into his hand. “You’re just using PTO-issued scouters. Dashi sent out an empire-wide software update _months_ ago to configure all scouters to ignore my ki signature.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Though I suppose your ignorance does speak at least to your chancellor’s loyalty, if not necessarily your family’s. _She_ was more than aware I was coming. The fact that she didn’t alert _you_ says a lot for her common sense.”

Sauza hissed between his teeth. “Tkemali… that traitor…”

“No,” said Frieza, “That would be you.”

“I will… free my people… from…” Sauza took in a breath to cough, obviously trying to wrest himself free but not accomplishing anything but a slight twitch. Also some minor suffocation; Frieza wasn’t really allowing the prince’s chest to expand enough for something as breath-intensive as talking.

“From _what_?” asked Frieza, not really giving Sauza a chance to answer. “The hundred year mortgage on this planet that your grandfather took on so he could give your mother a place to experiment with social engineering? I realize the interest has built up a bit considering you didn’t _pay_ it for sixteen years, but in that case you’re less starting a revolution and more just murdered some debt collectors so you can continue squatting on stolen property.”  

His commpad beeped, but Frieza was not about to stop in the middle of a decent monologue to check a text message, so he continued without pausing, “Or are you talking about the taxes? Of which this planet hardly pays any, since you don’t produce anything of value. You actually get more _back_ in federal subsidies than you get _taxed_ , and while I realize it must have been frustrating to not be able to squander them as you please, your infrastructure really couldn’t afford another decade of neglect.” Frieza clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “I suppose as the second born, your mother let you skip your civics courses in favor of playing soldier.”

He pointed a finger at Sauza’s forehead. “It really is just as well you will be missing the trade summit; you would have just embarrassed yourself even more than you already have. I know it’s a disappointment, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” He let a mote of his power gather on the tip of his finger. Then he smiled. “There are a lot of other things you will be missing a great deal more.”

Which was when Sauza’s army attacked him.

Or, well. Tried to.

The first one actually got a ki blast off—it, predictably, did nothing—before Frieza waved his free hand contemptuously and slammed the lot of them into the ground with a delightful and varied array of cracking sounds.

There was a lot of screaming. Most of it was in pain, but a surprisingly large minority consisted of variations on, “No!” “Prince Sauza!” and/or “I’m so sorry, my prince!”

“What a faithful lot of imbeciles you have found,” Frieza said to Sauza, his smile never faltering. Really, leaving the summit for this had been one of the best decisions he’d made in months. He hadn’t been in such a good mood in ages. “Your mother’s social experiments back in the day must have been _very_ successful.”

While Sauza had looked some variety of shocked when Frieza first appeared before him, it was only now—at least a few minutes belated—that something like fear crossed his face. “Let… them go.”

“Do you mean the army that just tried to kill me?” said Frieza. “Why would I ever do that?”

“They’re… no one…”

“That will in a few seconds be literally true,” said Frieza.

“Please…”

And just like that, the whole event stopped being funny. “Are you _begging_?” said Frieza. “You didn’t for yourself, but you would for _them_? Not a one of them has an appreciable fraction of your power.”

Sauza’s eyes were actually started to get _wet_ at the corners. “ _Please_ …”

“Shut _up_ ,” said Frieza, and it was only when he noticed that the point of his finger was shaking that he realized he was absolutely _furious_. “You murder my followers, you _defy_ me, and you think you will find _mercy_? You arrogant, blind fool-”

“Frieza-sama,” said Kitori, who was at that moment both the bravest and the stupidest person in the universe, “Could I get a word with you?”

Frieza stared at him. Kitori stared back, bizarrely, unshakably unafraid.

It was that, of all things, that broke through the haze of blood creeping in on the edges of Frieza’s vision. “… Fine.” He looked at Sauza, feeling some of his earlier good humor return. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Frieza-sama,” said Kitori about a minute later, once they’d flown behind a nearby plateau for some privacy, “I apologize for interrupting you, but… since Dashi isn’t here to say this, I feel like as your loyal servant I must speak in his place.”

“Go on,” said Frieza. “I look forward to your Dashi impression.”

Kitori actually _grinned_ , if only for a fleeting second. “I don’t think my voice goes that deep, my lord. But…” he cleared his throat before saying, in a voice several registers below his usual tenor, “Considering the current dearth of talent in your forces, Frieza-sama, it would seem expedient to hire Prince Sauza instead of killing him.”

Frieza found himself chuckling again despite himself. “You _do_ remember the man just attempted to kill you.”

The flat affect Kitori had adopted to impersonate Dashi evaporated as he practically vibrated with… excitement? “He would have succeeded, too, if you hadn’t saved me. My lord, he’s stronger than _Captain Ginyu_ was. And he would be so easy to recruit! He obviously cares about this colony, or at least its soldiers; just tell him you’ll spare them if he comes to work for you.”

Frieza raised an eyebrow. “And then have someone who wants to kill me on my command ship.”

“He wouldn’t have to be assigned to the command ship,” said Kitori, though he sounded a bit wistful. “Though, uh, I’ll admit I didn’t think you really cared about that kind of thing, considering how the kid tried to punch your head off the first time he met you.”

“If I continue to amass disaffected princes with a penchant for regicide, people are going to think I’m starting a collection,” said Frieza, though even as he said it he realized he was seriously considering it. His dislike of Sauza’s… everything notwithstanding, there had been something impressive about how he dominated his fight with Uiro even when suppressing his power below that of the younger prince’s. “… He is a skilled fighter.” He smirked a little at Kitori. “Maybe he could teach _you_.”

What had been intended as a barb missed the mark entirely as Kitori’s eyes actually lit up. “Really? Thank you so much, Frieza-sama! To learn under such a master would be-”

“Stop,” said Frieza, unable at that moment to take Kitori’s enthusiasm. Kitori cut himself off immediately, but there was still such _expectancy_ in his aura that Frieza felt almost awkward when he continued, “You’ve convinced me. It might teach him a bit of humility to have to work as an instructor for a time before he’s proved to me he’s anything but a thug with aspirations.”

Kitori’s glee was immediate, total, and apparently completely irrepressible, considering he was still grinning when they flew back around the plateau and Frieza said to the still-paralyzed, twitching Sauza, “Congratulations. You owe your life and the lives of your subjects to the man whose head you just tried to cut off.”

When Sauza just looked confused, Frieza continued, “I have decided I am willing to overlook your murder of Miyaki and his team, and the rest of this charade proved in reality to be little more than an entertaining diversion. So I am going to make you an offer. In just a minute, I am going to release you, at which point you will have a choice. Either you can resume your ill-thought out assault, in which event I will kill you, what remains of your army,” there were definitely already a few corpses in the field of mangled Brench; they weren’t once of those races that could survive a broken neck, “and whatever portion of this colony isn’t willing to immediately denounce you.

“Or you can say goodbye to your time as governor of an irrelevant backwater, and kneel before your emperor.”

Frieza released his hold on Sauza. The Brench landed clumsily, twisting in mid-air to look out at his followers. Frieza let him for a long moment before saying, “Well?”

When Sauza turned back towards him, his expression was unreadable, and his aura was such a tangle of emotions that up until the moment he actually put one knee upon the ground, Frieza would have given even odds to the Brench throwing his offer back in his face. “Thank you for your graciousness… my emperor.” He licked his lips before continuing, “May I… see to my men?”

“They are no longer your men,” Frieza reminded him coldly, letting him linger in the dirt for a few more seconds before waving his hand dismissively. “But we won’t be leaving until the morning. Until then, you can do as you like.”

 When Sauza immediately dashed off, Kitori sidled up next to Frieza and said, “Would you mind if I, uh,”

“Don’t touch the emergency stores of the ship’s healing liquid. I don’t care what you do with the rest.”

Kitori grinned again and saluted before tapping on his scouter. “Hey, Ocha, land the ship at my location. We’re done, but we’re gonna need the medical bay.” Then he followed off after Sauza, saying jovially, “Prince Sauza, the first thing you’re gonna learn about the Frieza Force’s benefits package is that we have _great_ healthcare.”

Frieza allowed himself a smirk at that, but it froze on his face as he felt a presence manifest behind him and a voice above him say, “I think you actually know more about the Brench prince’s own colony than he does. Poor child.

“It was a nice speech, though, and about such an insignificant planet, too. You really do read all of those reports you always have lying around, don’t you?”

He had set up a daily alarm on his commpad to remind him when it was ten minutes before the time Whis usually showed up to collect him (the angel thankfully being fairly regular, in his training schedules if nothing else). Why hadn’t-

Oh. It had. He’d just ignored it.

“Of course I do,” said Frieza, when it became obvious Whis actually expected a reply. “It’s _my_ empire.”

“… It is at that,” Whis agreed. “But,” and Whis hummed thoughtfully, deep in his throat, “It looks as though for now, your captain has things well in hand, wouldn’t you say?”

And then they were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

It was during punch sequence twenty-four thousand four hundred thirty-nine of day twenty-seven of training with Whis that Frieza overshot slightly with his left and felt a sharp twinge tear down his upper shoulder into his arm.

He ignored it—the twinge was far from painful enough for him not to be able to work through it—except he hadn’t even begun the next sequence before the high gravity abruptly shifted back to Standard and he heard Whis say, “And that’s it for forms today, Frieza-san.”

Frieza stared at Whis. “… I’m not done.”

“You just hyperextended your shoulder, Frieza-san,” said Whis, walking over and pointedly holding out a water bottle towards Frieza’s right hand.

“So?” said Frieza, though he didn’t refuse the water bottle, taking one long swallow before wiping his mouth.

“It means you’re too tired to hold proper form,” said Whis. “You’ll just injure yourself if we continue.”

“You know I have healing tanks on my ship,” said Frieza, “So why does it matter?”

“Training muscle memory is a bad idea if you’re doing it wrong,” said Whis. “And besides that…” He poked Frieza’s shoulder demonstratively.

Intellectually, Frieza registered that the touch was pure, absolute agony.

Practically, it wasn’t anything debilitating. “And?”

Whis was frowning. “I was mistaken. You haven’t just hyperextended. You completely tore through your rotator cuff.” He poked Frieza’s shoulder again, but before Frieza could snap at him to stop it, a strange cooling sensation came out of Whis’ finger in a wave, and the discomfort was… gone. Just like that.

Whis sighed. “And you wanted to train through that. Really, Frieza-san, do you not have any sense at all?”

“It was nothing,” said Frieza, rotating his shoulder experimentally.

“It was very much a something, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “It was at the least a good illustration of another issue we have to address. You are the least bodily present person I have ever met.”

Frieza frowned at him. “Explain yourself.”

“You habitually dissociate,” said Whis, “Which explains your high pain tolerance and the strength of you natural telekinetic abilities, but it also means you have trouble recognizing what is going on in your own body.” Some of Frieza’s skepticism as to why this was a problem must have shown on his face, because Whis cocked an eyebrow at him and said mildly, “It also explains why your ki control is so amateur; you can hardly be any good at controlling your ki if you cut off your emotional resonance with it.” 

Frieza straightened indignantly. “My ki control-”

“Is mediocre at best. And before you died the first time, it was absolutely terrible.” Whis shook his head pityingly. “You couldn’t even exist in the form in which you were born without constantly leaking energy. It was only recently you learned how to properly contain your ki; you still don’t know how to appreciably suppress it, and before you say it, shapeshifting to a body that generates less ki does not count.

“For someone of your power to not be able to control their own ki output… it was actually quite remiss of me to not address that first. Your ki shielding _is_ a clever workaround, I must admit-”

Frieza narrowed his eyes at Whis. “Ki shielding? What are you talking about?”

Whis trailed off, then peered down at Frieza with a bewildered look before saying, “… Oh my. You actually don’t even know you do it, do you?”

“That isn’t an answer to my question,” said Frieza.

“Fair enough,” said Whis amiably. He pointed at the water bottle in Frieza’s right hand. “Let me ask you Frieza-san: How are you holding that?”

What. “With my hand,” said Frieza. “Obviously.”

“Mm,” said Whis. “No.” Then he poked the side of the water bottle, which promptly imploded into a fine powder, throwing water up Frieza’s arm and onto his feet.

“… And what was the point of that,” said Frieza, dripping slightly.

“Perhaps not the most illustrative example,” admitted Whis, “Considering how rudimentary your ki sense is. But maybe you will understand the point I was trying to make when I say that _I_ did not destroy the water bottle. I merely stopped something _you_ were doing.”

“… ki shielding,” said Frieza.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Whis, as if Frieza had said something clever and was not merely repeating back something Whis had said moments earlier. “You wrap everything you come into contact with in a barrier of your own ki, to protect it. Otherwise you couldn’t interact with most things at all; realistically, with your power, nearly anything you touch would… well, do what that water bottle just did.”

That… had happened quite frequently in his true form, once upon a time. One of the many reasons he had rarely bothered with it. It was disconcerting to have things dissolve with the lightest press of his finger. Like the universe was made of spun sugar, and he the only real thing in it. Perhaps not a completely inaccurate reflection of reality, but… unsettling.

He had just thought that his control had improved.

“Oh, it has!” said Whis. “Don’t misunderstand me, you are much better than you used to be. But realistically, even in your weakest form you would have to have constantly been ki shielding, it was probably just easier because there was less ki present to regulate. Outside of combat, I’m not sure you’ve _directly_ touched anything in well… ever.

“The living world was not made to be lived in by beings much more powerful than that Brench prince.” Whis waved a hand expansively towards the vista behind them. “Hence the creation of special places like this. Still eminently breakable, of course, but at least you’d have to put some effort in.

“But I digress. The point is that your ki control will become much finer once we get you more settled into your own body. Which will be a bit of a chore, I admit—you only recently became accustomed enough to this form to sleep in it—but a worthwhile endeavor, in the long run.”

This was leading into meditation, wasn’t it.

“Absolutely,” said Whis.

Damn.

“Don’t be like that, Frieza-san,” said Whis, crossing his legs in mid-air and hovering a meter above the ground, his hands resting easily on his knees. “Meditation is a wonderful grounding technique.”

Frieza sighed but imitated Whis’ posture, the tip of his tail just brushing the grass.

“Now then,” said Whis. “Listen to the pattern of my breathing, then just follow along. Once you have the natural pattern of it, I want you to focus on the feeling of air flowing through you.”

Frieza watched Whis breathe in through three heartbeats, hold for two, exhale for four, then repeat.

Simple enough.

“That’s it, Frieza-san,” Whis murmured after a minute, then went silent.

Frieza let himself sink into the feeling of breathing, and after a few minutes almost found himself enjoying it. It was dull, of course, but it was also oddly calming. Calm was not a common feeling in his life; interesting for the novelty, if nothing else.

Why had he hated doing this so-

A vice clamped down on his temples and started squeezing his brain into paste.

“Oh dear,” said Whis, as Frieza crumpled out of the air and curled in on himself in an effort to block out some of the light that had abruptly sharpened itself into ki beams aimed for his eyes. “I suppose your improved diet and sleep schedule haven’t yet taken care of the migraines. And now you’re dissociating again,” the angel sighed as Frieza shoved the pain as far away as he could and felt everything snap back into realignment in his mind.

“I am _never_ doing that again,” Frieza hissed as he shoved himself to his feet.

“No,” agreed Whis, alighting again on the ground. “I realize now I was going at this backwards. Until we make the act of being present in your body a positive experience, meditating will be counterproductive.”

He took a few steps towards Frieza and reached out with his hand, but Frieza was in no mood for Whis’ usual prodding and slapped it away.

Whis actually had the audacity to _pout_. “Please don’t be like that, Frieza-san.”

“I am _tired_ ,” said Frieza, “Of you _touching_ me.”

“… You understand that your race was not designed to be solitary, don’t you?” asked Whis.

That was enough of a non sequitur that Frieza actually felt himself get derailed. “… What?”

“It means non-violent physical contact is good for you, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “Your touch aversion seems likely to be symptomatic of you not having received much of it.”

Rerailed. “Not even _mammals_ enjoy being touched by people they _don’t like_ ,” said Frieza, shooting Whis a pointed glare.

Whis didn’t look much bothered by the implication. “Mm, true.” Then he gave Frieza a cheeky wink. “But you don’t like anyone, so you’ll have to make do with me. And considering you _still_ don’t have a personal physician, it falls to me to work out how to stop these migraines of yours.” He gave Frieza a significant look. “Which does entail a physical examination.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Frieza.

“Your face is still wet from when you teared up not three minutes ago,” said Whis. “Even if you are capable of ignoring it most of the time, chronic pain has long-lasting negative side effects.” When Frieza said nothing, Whis sighed. “Frieza-san, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not _afraid_ of you hurting me,” said Frieza scornfully, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I never said anything about you being afraid,” said Whis.

Frieza glared at him. Whis sighed again. “Just… sit down, please.”

A stool popped into existence right behind Frieza. With one last look at Whis, Frieza sat on it begrudgingly.

Whis walked behind him and knelt down before placing his hands on Frieza’s shoulders; Frieza very pointedly ignored the touch—and Whis—entirely, staring straight ahead across the lake.

“Well,” said Whis after only a few seconds, “I’ve found at least one problem.”

“So glad to have your informed-“ began Frieza snidely, then his voice cut off with an embarrassing squeak as Whis dug his thumbs into Frieza’s neck just below the curve of his skull. It felt-

“Your muscles are unbelievably rigid, Frieza-san,” said Whis conversationally as he rotated his thumbs in small circles before beginning to drag them down both sides of Frieza’s spine, pressing hard between each vertebra as he went; Frieza could almost swear he heard something _pop_ as the angel passed over the scapulae. “That restricts blood flow, which is bad for flexibility and is likely a large contributor to your migraines.” He paused like he expected Frieza to say something in response to this, but as Frieza’s muscles seemed to have stopped working, he was otherwise occupied putting all of his energy into not toppling over like a poorly constructed champagne tower. After an indeterminate period of time, Whis continued, “Hot baths can help, as can drinking more water, getting more sleep, and meditation, but seeing as we’re still working up to meditation…” the angel’s thumbs by that point had traversed the entirety of Frieza’s back to the base of Frieza’s tail; Frieza had expected him to stop there, but Whis _kept on going_ , his fingers long enough to wrap all of the way around as he continued down Frieza’s spinal cord. “Massage can be a useful stopgap measure- are you alright?”

“Mm,” said Frieza, who had given in to the inevitable and let his forehead collapse onto his knees, his hands curled loosely around his shins.

“I suppose it makes sense you haven’t received a massage before,” murmured Whis, before going mercifully quiet.

His hands kept on moving, though; to the tip of Frieza’s tail, before returning to his shoulders, this time moving out before going back down. Then each of Frieza’s arms in turn, starting at the shoulder before ending at Frieza’s fingertips, rubbing at each joint before moving on to the next. Then at least ten minutes after that on the area where Frieza’s neck connected to his skull, which was about when Frieza began to feel himself start to fall asleep.

A distant part of his mind started screaming about the foolishness of making himself vulnerable, except he felt so comfortable that it was easy for once to recognize the irrationality of it; he had slept in Whis’ presence once already and nothing had happened. Besides, Whis had no reason to hurt him, had _never_ hurt him, had never done anything worse than shove him in the dirt, which while infuriating hadn’t left so much as a bruise. It wouldn’t hurt this once to just relax-

“Whis!”

At the sound of that voice, every muscle in Frieza’s body simultaneously locked up, and he was very, very much awake.

Whis stilled himself, his thumbs buried in the upper parts of Frieza’s trapezius, before standing up and stepping around to stand beside Frieza. “Yes, Beerus-sama?”

The Destroyer landed in front of them, his ears folded back. “We’re supposed to be meeting with Shin in thirty minutes over that stupid new terraforming idea of his, and it takes twenty to Warp to the World of the Kais. You know how irritating he gets when we’re late.”

Whis blinked. “Oh, is it that time already?”

Beerus eyed the angel with obvious skepticism. “Don’t tell me _you_ lost track of time.”

“Sorry,” said Whis cheerfully. “Just give me seven minutes to drop Frieza-san off and come back, and we’ll even be a little early!”

Beerus’ focus for the first time shifted to Frieza. “Oh, so you’re still here. Can’t be bothered to stop stretching long enough to greet me properly, can you.”

“You’ll have to forgive him, Beerus-sama,” said Whis, still cheerfully, placing a hand on Frieza’s shoulder. “I overworked him a bit and he’s dealing with some leg cramps. Brought a delicious durange liqueur from Planet Brench, though.” He gestured towards the patio table. “Why don’t you try it while I return Frieza-san home?”

Beerus scoffed, but Whis seemed to take this as a dismissal, the light of Warp immediately descending around them.

Frieza had grown acclimatized enough to Whis’ use of the ability that he didn’t stumble anymore on arrival, but despite their relatively graceful landing, Whis looked more troubled than usual, which was to say at all.

That was… disconcerting. Whis’ irrepressible good mood was one of those irritating constants, like entropy. “What is it?”

Whis opened his mouth, then closed it. Just when Frieza was getting ready to snap at him to come out with it already, Whis smiled a little crookedly and said, “Make sure to drink at least two glasses of water before bed,” and disappeared.

\--*--

The massages became the regular ending to their training sessions just before what Whis called the ‘post-workout snack,’ which Frieza was not opposed to. Whis started insisting that Frieza meditate for an hour before he went to sleep, which he was.

“You know how well that went the first time,” he said to Whis as he sipped his nut butter banana smoothie, though he wasn’t able to summon up as much vitriol as he wanted to; Whis’ massages had an odd soporific effect on his mood that was difficult to throw off, and he had (reluctantly) grown very fond of the smoothies. Why they tasted so much better than his usual health shakes he couldn’t figure out, and he wasn’t about to either, considering Whis had proven unusually tight-lipped whenever Frieza had previously inquired about his supplier.

“Because of your migraines, yes,” Whis said. “The massages are meant to help mitigate them. Meditating right after a massage should further those benefits. After all, migraines are triggered by physical and mental stressors, and while massages help alleviate the physical,” Whis held out his left hand diagonally in front of him, “Meditating alleviates the mental,” Whis held out his right hand perpendicular to his left and crossed them. “When you combine that with the fact that you’ve been eating and sleeping better, that means no more migraines!” The angel beamed.

Frieza took another sip of his smoothie.

“Also I can’t teach you anything about ki control until you’ve become more in tune with your own energy flow,” said Whis. “So…”

Frieza continued not to say anything, but something about his scowl must have signaled acquiescence, because Whis just smiled at him brightly and Warped him back to his ship with instructions to ‘remember to focus on his breathing!’

Whis did not prove incorrect about the effects of his treatment regimen; nothing worse threatened during his second meditating attempt than the mildest of headaches, and eventually Frieza felt himself start to relax into it. Later efforts proved even easier, experience no longer leading him to reflexively expect pain just from the simple practice of mindful respiration.

Still, meditating anywhere other than his bedroom had proven… difficult. However, notwithstanding an abberative three days on Planet Zalt while his ship was in dry-dock (ha!) for retrofitting—where he spent his days at the inaugural West Quadrant Resource Preservation Conference and his nights wrestling with seasickness and ever-increasing irritation at being locked out of his own ship, however necessarily—this wasn’t actually an issue until the temperature controls in his quarters broke a few weeks in.

Actually broke, this time—not just fiddled with by Whis—as just when he had gotten properly settled into his meditation pose, the temperature abruptly and without warning dropped several hundred degrees.

Frieza’s first thought was that a hole had been pierced in the side of the ship, except that there had been no pressure change and there was still air to breathe.

When the door to his front room failed to slide open, his next thought was a poorly thought out assassination attempt.

Except when he had blown himself two new doorways to the hallway—floating over the shattered remains of his drinks cabinet from where all of the containers had flash frozen and then exploded—it turned out that the power regulation throughout the entire officers’ wing of the ship was malfunctioning.

“My apologies, Frieza-sama,” said his chief engineer, her voice somewhat muffled through the spacesuit. “I thought we caught them all during testing on Planet Zalt, but the latest software upgrade to our power regulation system seems to have some belated issues.”

“Anyone dead?” said Frieza.

“No,” said Namasu, who knew very well her continued existence hinged on that exact answer. “We have the oxygen generators on an independent operating system just in case of a situation like this. Several people are in medical for treatment of frostbite, though.”

“How long until this is fixed?” said Frieza.

“Hard to say. I’m hesitant to do testing until we’re back somewhere with a breathable atmosphere, but Planet Litt is only a few hours’ flight away.”

It was only with effort that Frieza didn’t grimace. “Is there anywhere else we could land?”

Namasu shook her head. “Nowhere within a day’s travel, sire, and I’d be afraid to leave it that long. We’re starting to see a spread to other systems.”

Frieza finally gave a reluctant wave of assent before turning back down the hallway towards the bridge.

“I’ll inform Planet Litt immediately, Frieza-sama,” said Dashi, making a note on his commpad.

“Unnecessary, we’re just stopping for repairs,” said Frieza. “This isn’t an official visit.”

Dashi didn’t look up from his commpad. “They’re going to want to throw you a welcoming party, my lord. Littians are prone to race-wide depression when deprived of the ability to commemorate what they see as major milestones, and this will mark only your third visit to Litt in thirty years.”

“I was dead sixteen of them.” Which wasn’t even counting the two he had been missing over half of his body and a full third of his brain matter and not exactly in a state to play politics.

Dashi looked unperturbed. “Even so. Considering the physician shortage, it might be prudent to allow them a little leeway.”

The remnants of Frieza’s good mood from Whis’ massage were rapidly deteriorating. Even ignoring the fact that they had left Planet Zalt just the day before and he’d snatched maybe seven hours’ sleep over during the previous seventy-two (even Zalt surfaceside architecture was not completely immune to stormy weather), he avoided Planet Litt for a reason.  Littians were not known for being restrained in their celebrations—either in length, volume, or extravagance—and their aesthetic tended towards the discordant and obnoxious. They were also a race whose systems couldn’t absorb alcohol, so even if you arrived drunk enough for the festivities to be tolerable, you would leave with nothing but a terrible hangover and regret. The only reason he had visited Litt three months ago during his empire-wide tour was because he had stopped on every planet, planetoid, and moon with a population over five million, and his distaste didn’t quite extend to deliberately snubbing a race that made up nearly thirty percent of his medical corps. The fact that he had to visit Litt twice in the same year was just extremely poor luck. “No music. No speeches longer than five minutes. No more than five speeches. I don’t care what they do afterwards, but I personally will be staying no more than two hours. And tell them I don’t care if it’s part of their culture, if they try to sneak in a parade again by calling it a ‘ritual march,’ I will dissolve their senate. I want you to leave it up to their imaginations to interpret exactly what I mean by that.”

Dashi glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps you should try and get some rest before we arrive, Frieza-sama.”

Ah, his headache was back. How wonderful. “And where might I do that?”

“The training rooms haven’t yet been affected by the power fluctuations. We could evict everyone from-”

The training rooms. Every one of which had observation window. "No.”

He _was_ tired though, which was a problem when staring down at least half a day of affairs of state. He couldn’t exactly default to his old standby and just steal his papa’s cape and curl up in the king’s closet. Even ignoring that his father was dead and the hypothetical closet would also have been below freezing, he was long past the point of being able to afford even the temporary illusion that his problems were something from which he could escape.

In this situation, the best recourse was to just spend the next four hours getting ahead on some paperwork in a conference room and then grit his teeth through a Littian welcoming ceremony.

He might literally rather die. Past experience said the actual event itself wasn’t too painful as long as it was quick.

Except- wait. “Do any of the conference rooms maintain Standard temperature?”

Dashi checked his commpad. “Three-Alpha does, but the gravity and lights have stopped working.”

“Good enough.”

He actually did just mean to nap—sleeping in zero gravity was fairly comfortable as long as you didn’t mind bumping into the occasional wall—except once he had brute-forced the door shut, he found himself crossing his legs into his usual meditation pose anyway.

It was difficult not to scowl. It had been fewer than three weeks and he’d already fallen into a habit. A trained response like some sort of pet.

… If he landed on Litt in this sort of mood, it was more likely than not that he would reduce their capital city to a crater. Which he would actually regret come tomorrow.

_Meditation is great for reducing mental stressors!_

“By the gods, shut _up_!” Frieza shouted to the completely empty room, before forcing himself to exhale in a steady stream of air. This was unproductive. He was a bit agitated from having his routine disrupted, but he desperately needed to calm down if he wanted to get any sleep before arriving on Litt-

Only to realize he had defaulted to the meditation breathing pattern. Without any conscious thought on his part.

He wanted to kill something.

_Or you could just meditate. This **is** one of two reasons you started doing this._

He did not like that one of the voices inside his head had started sounding suspiciously like Whis. It made his _own thoughts_ grating.

_More grating than a Littian welcoming ceremony?_

… That was a good point.

“You look well rested, my lord,” said Dashi when Frieza walked up beside him on the boarding ramp four hours later. All of Frieza’s command staff was assembled along with a number of the other officers, which marked the first time Frieza had seen Prince Sauza since Planet Frieza 112.

Prince Sauza actually looked surprised to see him. The Brench also didn’t seem to know how to whisper properly, since he said to Kitori well within Frieza’s hearing, “Why is _he here_?”

“For the welcoming ceremony?” Kitori mostly just sounded confused.

There was a moment of silence. “He _lives_ on this ship?”

“I- yes? It’s the _capital_ ship.”

“I didn’t think,” Sauza hissed, “That meant it was _literally_ the _capital_.”

“… Why did you think Dashi was here if Frieza-sama wasn’t?”

“I didn’t know he was!”

“Maybe you should leave the training rooms more often than to bathe,” said Uiro from the other side of Kitori.

“If you trained half as much as I did, brat-”

Frieza turned and _looked_ at all three of them. The two princes visibly stiffened, Sauza setting his jaw before meeting the look evenly without blinking. Uiro, showing more sense than usual, turned to stare determinedly at the ground.

Kitori grinned at him and actually gave him a little wave, to which Frieza could only roll his eyes and turn back to Dashi. “So what ridiculous frivolities do the Littians have planned for us today?”

Dashi looked at his commpad. “Welcome speech by the princeps senatus, then the minority leader, then their caliph is giving a blessing, then the head of research development at their most prestigious university is giving a lecture on recent medical breakthroughs, and finally his second is giving a lecture on the applications of those breakthroughs.”

“Those last two almost sound interesting,” said Frieza.

Dashi nodded, not looking up from his commpad. “I informed their Secretary of Protocol that you might appreciate a more practical bent to some of the presentations, and from what Pura-san has told me about her correspondence with the research head, the findings are non-trivial.” His chief scientist, standing on the other side of the boarding ramp, was too far away to actually hear their conversation, and didn’t look up from her commpad. Dashi continued, “You are also being seated next to the research head during the meal, during which there is to be a play by their most highly decorated acting troupe-”

“Local?” asked Frieza.

“Unfortunately so, my lord,” said Dashi. “Littians don’t enjoy Gelboian theater.”

Frieza sighed. “At least it isn’t another musical performance.”

“Just so,” said Dashi. “Those are being reserved for after you have retired to your estate outside the city. The play is historical fiction about the Littian scientist who discovered gunpowder; it’s mostly an excuse for an excess of special effects. Would that be acceptable? There is still time to cancel.”

Frieza gave a permissive wave. “It’s fine. I appreciate a good explosion as much as the next person.”

Except before they got to that, he still had to stand through an official greeting and sit through twenty-five minutes of speeches. Littians were prone to flowery greetings and introductions, except Frieza only had the one title and had refused all previous attempts by the Littians to bestow him with others, so the Secretary of Protocol had apparently decided to resort to just announcing his staff.

“You didn’t tell me you were a king,” hissed Prince Sauza to Kitori as they walked to their seats for the meal.

“I’m not!” said Kitori. “The Littians were just being gracious. Frieza-sama gave me Tigere as a bonus after I put down the revolution on Planet Frieza 448, but no one lives there.”

“It does have a Level One habitability classification though,” said Uiro. “Great fishing.”

“… The emperor gave you a Level One planet as a _bonus_?” said Sauza.

“Did you not read the benefits pamphlet?” said Kitori. “I could have sworn I gave you one at orientation-”

This time it was Dashi who turned and gave the three of them a look, just in time to shut them up before the speeches.

It was almost a pity. Listening to the Brench prince sputter was certainly more entertaining than Littian grandstanding. It didn’t help that he had never actually gotten any sleep, so he was half drowsing in his chair by the time the caliph took the stage.

Planet Litt had been an early entry into galactic politics, and their theology correspondingly was less flights of fancy and more a specific field of study that happened to rely an unfortunate amount on case studies. Their caliph had, in fact, contacted him during his last visit to Litt to request an interview about his experiences with death, but after Frieza had made it clear that, one, his knowledge was limited to the afterlife of one specific backwater, and two, no, the man had proved bright enough to not push the issue.

Still, for all there wasn’t much resembling faith involved in the Littian state religion, it still retained the trappings of belief, so the caliph was quite dramatically beseeching the heavens when Frieza felt a presence appear behind him and heard Whis whisper into his ear, “My, this person is fond of dear Shin, isn’t he? I don’t believe I’ve heard him described in such flattering terms before.”

“You haven’t attended many services for the Church of Duality, then,” Frieza murmured back.

“No,” Whis agreed, draping himself over the back of Frieza’s chair. “Oh dear, he does _not_ like Beerus-sama very much, though. I’m not sure you should be allowing this kind of slander.”

Frieza bit back the first response that came to mind in favor of a more diplomatic “He’s using archaic High Standard. By ‘terrible’ he means ‘terrifying.’”

Whis settled, apparently appeased. “Well that’s not so bad.”

When the angel made no immediate move to say anything else, Frieza said, “Whis-san, was there something you wanted?” He didn’t actually object much to the interruption—he was, after all, only putting up with the proceedings under protest—but experience told him that Whis could and would sit through all of the speeches and the entire meal before getting around to his point if he was otherwise distracted, and forcing the Littian’s exceedingly neurotic Secretary of Protocol to rework place settings at this point was just asking for a weeping fit that he wasn’t equipped to deal with sans murder when staring down hour thirty without sleep. (He had once made it three hundred, but needless to say there were no surviving witnesses.)

“Mm?” said Whis, tearing himself away from his obvious fascination with the caliph. “Oh, yes. I came by to give you my apologies that something came up and I can’t train you tonight.”

“I see,” said Frieza, feeling an unexpected swelling of disappointment.

Well, perhaps not that unexpected. He did, after all, deal poorly with disruptions to his schedule, and he’d had enough of those today already.

“Take it as a rest day,” said Whis. “It’s good to have an occasional day without training.”

“Mm,” said Frieza, intending to do nothing of the sort. The day had been stressful enough without forcing himself to inactivity at the end of it.

“I am serious, Frieza-san,” said Whis. “I will know, and we _will_ spend all of tomorrow practicing your meditation…” he trailed off, staring again at the caliph.

Who had, Frieza just then realized, also trailed off, and was staring back at Whis, and the entirety of the gathering had gone silent.

“Hm,” said Whis, before looking back down at Frieza and saying, “Just take a hot bath and catch up on your sleep, will you?” Then he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Members of the Frieza Force having a great healthcare package (as referenced in Chapter 3) and getting planets as bonuses if they do well in battle are taken from [Dragon Ball Fighterz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUiYvPDAbrQ).


	5. Chapter 5

If Beerus made an appearance at one of Frieza’s training sessions, it was always sometime at the very tail end, or just a few minutes before the meal break. Frieza had therefore already disregarded any chance of Beerus coming to watch him train that day—had been foolish enough to let himself relax under the delusion that the Destroyer could, in any way, be predicted—when he sat down in front of his plate of onigiri, so he might have choked a bit on a pickled plum when he heard Beerus say from behind him, “Aren’t you getting tired of running him through forms by now?”

“I’ve been training him for barely two months, Beerus-sama,” said Whis, sipping at a glass of tashi-mead on the opposite side of the table and politely ignoring Frieza coughing the masticated remains of the umeboshi into a napkin. “He’s only just recently started getting a handle on the fundamentals.” He hummed a little thoughtfully under his breath. “Though you’re right it might be time to start transitioning part-time to sparring drills.”

“Or a real match, to test him out.” A gaunt hand landed on Frieza’s shoulder, and it was with his mouth only centimeters from Frieza’s ear that Beerus purred, “What do you say, Frieza? Bet you haven’t had a fight worth having since the Tournament.”

‘Do whatever Beerus says.’

“Of course, Beerus-sama,” said Frieza, or at least that’s what he thought he said. It was hard to hear around the white noise that skittered across his mind, everything suddenly seeming very far away.

Either way, Beerus was smiling, so it must have been- fine.

Whis didn’t look as if he thought things were fine. “Perhaps this isn’t the best idea, Beerus-sama. It’s a little soon.”

Beerus laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Whis. Even before you started training him, Frieza was much stronger than Goku was the first time I fought him. Besides, it’s just a friendly spar. I won’t bruise up your newest student _too_ badly.”

He walked over to the training ground, Frieza trailing about five meters behind him, before the Destroyer turned towards him and widened his stance, his mouth set in a smirk. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It didn’t even take effort anymore to shift into his golden form, as natural as breathing to gather his power within himself and let it build until it pressurized into diamond. Which was good, because his focus kept on being torn apart by pulses of static, every time he-

‘Never challenge him.’

What was he doing?

He was sparring.

When was the last time he’d done that?

Had he ever done that?

He had, with his papa. When he’d been small.

It had only been the once.

“Well?” Beerus didn’t sound pleased anymore. He was started to look-

‘Don’t make him angry.’

‘Don’t make him-’

‘Don’t-’

‘ _Don’t-_ ’

“What is wrong with you?” And just like that Beerus was next to him—was _reaching_ for him-

Until Whis caught Beerus by the wrist. “I apologize, Beerus-sama, but we’re not doing this today.”

Beerus definitely wasn’t smiling now. “Why are you interfering? I told you I wouldn’t hurt him, and beyond that this isn’t your business, Whis.”

Whis dropped Beerus’ wrist and took a step back. Beerus smirked. “That’s better.” His eyes shifted back towards Frieza. “Now where…”

The Destroyer trailed off with a puzzled frown as Frieza’s body unfroze itself seemingly for the sole purpose of performing a completely ineffectual flinch.

Off to the side, Whis murmured, “That would be why, Beerus-sama.”

Beerus didn’t even seem to hear Whis, his gaze not flickering as he stared at Frieza in silence. When the Destroyer finally spoke again, he actually had the gall to sound incredulous when he said, “Are you afraid of me?”

While his father had never included ‘don’t laugh at Beerus’ in his list of edicts, he’d probably thought it was implied. Except Frieza didn’t quite clap his hand over his mouth in time to suppress a giggle, which quickly and irrepressibly escalated into what even he could tell was a sound that bespoke more psychosis than amusement.

By the time he was done, his sides actually hurt a little, and Beerus’ expression had crept over from incredulity to something almost resembling concern. “Frieza-”

“Am I afraid of you?” he said, his tone mirroring Beerus’ tone as well as his words. “Am I- the first time we met, you called me a pathetic failure, then beat me so badly I woke up three days later in a healing tank. I hadn’t even said anything besides ‘who are you?’”

Not that he remembered, anyway. It had not been a minor head injury.

Beerus had been exactly as his father had described him. Impossibly lean, feline, built out of sharp angles and narrow, predatory eyes. But the description had always seemed so abstract—he had not expected his childhood monster to have a person’s face. He had not recognized Beerus at all.

That was not a mistake he made again.

“The _second_ time we met, you ordered me to destroy a planet inhabited by a race of people under my employ, backhanded me into a wall when I asked why, then told me I was an insignificant worm who should be glad he was being given the chance to do the bidding of a god. That you would not suffer my miserable existence if I didn’t learn my _place_.”

If before he hadn’t felt one way or the other about the Saiyans—useful in their penchant for murder, though arrogant and at times seemingly only questionably sapient—at least the filthy monkeys had presented him with a convenient target for his rage. He hadn’t allowed his thoughts to linger on how he was, in the end, doing nothing more than exactly what Beerus wanted of him. That he was just as much Beerus’ tool as the Saiyans had been his, and just as easily disposed of.

“I grew up on stories of you, of what you do to people foolish enough to dare defy you; stories my father only told me because you showed up the day of my _naming ceremony_ and told him you would be _watching_ me.

“Aren’t you _happy_ I’m afraid of you? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

If Frieza didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Beerus actually _winced_. “Frieza- I had Whis bring you back to life, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” said Frieza. “I understand very well that I live by your grace, Beerus-sama.”

“ _And_ I let Whis train you, on _my_ planet,” said Beerus.

“I apologize if I have not shown sufficient gratitude for your largesse, Beerus-sama,” said Frieza. “Is there anything I could do to-”

“For the love of me, that is _not_ the point I am trying to make,” said Beerus.

And that was when Frieza’s tenuous control over his temper snapped. “The point you’re trying to make is that what has happened in the past eight months should somehow outweigh the preceding _decades_.” As if Beerus hadn’t also spent their most recent interactions insulting him, with his every action reinforcing just how impassable the gap was between their strength. As if the fact that the threats were now implied rather than express made Frieza sleep any better at night. “Decades I spent listening to my father tell me I was never to challenge you, never to even train in case it might _look_ like I planning to challenge you, so _please_ forgive me if-”

All faux-contrition sapped abruptly from Beerus’ face. “He did what.”

Frieza felt his thought processes screech to a halt as his brain finally caught up to the fact that he had been shouting at the _Destroyer_. “Beerus-sama, I-”

The ground underneath Beerus cracked. “It was _him_? He was the one who-” at which point Beerus seemed to run out of words and just _snarled_ , a predatory, feral sound that that reverberated up Frieza’s spine and caused his body to seize up all over again.

Whis was starting to look a little concerned himself. “Beerus-sama, you must calm down. You know how hard it is to acquire kachi katchin for repairs.”

That just caused Beerus to whirl on Whis, though in the interim he seemed to have partially regained his vocabulary as he spat, “It was _him_ , Whis! I am going to _kill_ him-”

“He’s been dead seventeen years, Beerus-sama.”

“Then I am going to track down his soul and _disintegrate it_. Seventy years, Whis!”

Frieza was having a surprisingly difficult time tracking what Beerus was talking about. Except- “Are you threatening my father?”

“What do you care?” sneered Beerus. “I thought there was nothing in this universe you wanted to protect.”

What?

Wait.

Why did that sound familiar-

Oh.

Frieza felt the blood drain from his face.

“What,” said Beerus mockingly, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Sidra was happy enough to talk considering it was one of _my_ fighters who wished his universe back.” Beerus laughed, the sound harsh and rasping. “He wanted to _warn_ me about you. ‘A traitorous psychopath who doesn’t care if his own universe gets erased,’ I think he said.”

Frieza said nothing.

“So,” said Beerus, “I should think that the destruction of one paltry soul wouldn’t bother you at all.”

Frieza continued to say nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” said Beerus. He turned to Whis. “I think it’s time for a bit of a field trip to Hell, don’t you?”

Frieza felt something tighten in his chest. It made it strangely hard to breathe.

He had long been extremely ambivalent about his father—his overbearing, unforgiving papa who had loved the idea of a perfect heir more than the actual end result—to the point that Sorbet’s admitted failure to resurrect King Cold had mostly come as a relief. Freedom, at last, at least in one quarter, if not others. The ability to do what he wanted without having to consider his father’s disapproving gaze.

He didn’t understand why Beerus should care about King Cold at all. If Frieza was no threat, his father certainly wasn’t. Why should the Destroyer-

 _He doesn’t,_ said a little voice inside his head. _He just thinks it will provoke you._

Frieza’s hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Well. He wasn’t wrong.

And so it was before Beerus’ hand made its way to Whis’ shoulder that Frieza punched the Destroyer in the face.

And through the copse of trees behind him.

And one of the moons.

Which cracked in half.

“Well,” said Whis, his robes only mildly ruffled, “ _That_ will be interesting to fix.”

“I’ll help you weld it back together once we’re done,” said Beerus, landing not ten meters in front of them. He was grinning with every one of his sharp teeth, his cheek not even scuffed. “But don’t try and get in our way again, Whis-”

Frieza hook kicked Beerus in the side of the head—dodged—let the momentum half twist him around to aim a backwards heel kick at Beerus’ ribcage—blocked—before landing low and blasting Beerus under the Destroyer’s guard pointblank with his Death Cannon.

That one landed, driving Beerus back a few dozen meters, but the god was still grinning. “My, aren’t we aggressive today-” He paused to contemptuously slap down a series of Death Beams, “Did you really think-” The Death Beams did a one-eighty curve mid-air and smashed into the underside of Beerus’ jaw, actually lifting him off the ground and sending him stumbling backwards. Beerus spat red onto the grass. “You brat, you made me bite my-”

Frieza punched him in the face—blocked—punched again—blocked—slammed a knee into his ribs—blocked again—pivoted for a reverse roundhouse—glanced off of Beerus’ ear as he ducked—powered up for another Death Cannon—Beerus deflected his hand off to the side and counterpunched him, sliding Frieza back a few meters. “Will you let me finish a sentence!”

Frieza wiped at his nose, coming away with a purple smear.

“Still not saying anything?” said Beerus. “I remember you being better with the witty banter during the Tournament.”

“I wasn’t aware you ordered dinner _and_ a show,” said Frieza flatly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Beerus, golden energy gathering in one hand. “You’re an appetizer at best.”

Frieza dodged as a beam slid right by the side of his head, then pushed off and aimed another punch at Beerus’ face. Beerus didn’t even block this time, just grabbed Frieza’s left wrist out of the air a third of a meter from the tip of Beerus’ nose. “See? I didn’t even have to work at-”

“ _Choke_ ,” said Frieza, and his Death Blade shot across the gap.

It did, however, completely fail to actually accomplish anything, as Beerus immediately shoved Frieza’s wrist left and jerked his head right, the edge only cutting a thin line across the god’s cheek before he backhanded Frieza into the nearest tree. 

“You imbecile,” Beerus spat, “That nearly…” he trailed off as Frieza struggled to his feet, his left arm hanging limply by his side.

The problem, Frieza thought—a little distantly—with trying out new techniques in the middle of combat was that you didn’t necessarily work out all of the kinks in advance. Like whether it was smart to use homing attacks when your enemy could sense energy and you couldn’t, or whether you understood enough about the ki technique you were stealing to know how to stop it from cutting both ways.

In both cases, the answer turned out to be no, made obvious for the latter by the fact that he’d sliced through all of the tendons in his arm all the way to the elbow. It was hard to see through the blood, but- ah yes, that was bone. Wonderful.

“Are you kidding?” said Beerus, lowering his arms. “It’s been less than thirty seconds and you’ve already-”

Frieza gut punched him, stepping inside Beerus’ guard as the Destroyer doubled over before turning and throwing his left elbow upward into Beerus’ jaw. Purple blood splattered along Beerus’ jawline, the god staggering back just a step before he found his footing. “What are you-”

He blocked Frieza’s attempted one-handed grab of the back of his neck, but Frieza still managed to land a knee into Beerus’ chin before the god grabbed his right wrist and twisted it behind his back, in the same motion kicking Frieza’s feet out from under him and slamming Frieza face first into the ground, his knee grinding into Frieza’s lower back. “Will you just _stop_? You’re doing more damage to yourself than you are to me!”

It was difficult to get his left hand under him when he couldn’t actually move his fingers. When he shifted to brace himself on his elbow, Beerus just tightened his wrist lock a little further and yanked him off balance, knocking Frieza back on his face. “Did you not hear me? The fight is ov-”

Frieza’s tail slapped Beerus in the back of the head, startling the god’s grasp on his wrist loose just enough for Frieza to twist it so his fingers were pointed right between Beerus’ eyes.

A Death Beam at that range should have been impossible to block, so of course Beerus blocked it anyway. Then he snatched the tip of Frieza’s tail out of the air with his left hand. Then he snapped Frieza’s wrist with his right.

Which made Beerus’ grip on Frieza a lot more tenuous than it had been five seconds ago, too much of the Destroyer’s weight shifted to the balls of his feet to completely pin him, so Frieza took the opportunity to throw his legs over his head and wrap his toes around Beerus’ neck before hurling him towards the lake.

This had the unfortunately side effect of wrenching harshly at Frieza’s newly broken wrist—Beerus’ hand reflexively tightening around it before he was forcibly ripped away—but his right arm still had more feeling than his left, so he had just managed to stagger into a cracked mirror of his usual defensive stance by the time Beerus caught himself a few meters before hitting the water.

Apparently he needn’t had bothered; Beerus just looked at him for a moment before floating over and landing on the shore. “Well,” Beerus said, his gaze steady on Frieza, “I will give you this Whis, his form _has_ improved.”

“Mfph,” said Whis.

Beerus’ focus flickered to the left. “Are you eating _all_ of the-”

It was just such a flicker that Frieza had been waiting for. He closed the distance in an instant, aiming his right straight at Beerus’ throat.

Which Beerus caught out of the air without looking, fingers clenching around Frieza’s forearm as Beerus turned to stare at him incredulously. “Are you trying to punch me with a broken wrist?”

“No,” said Frieza, and activated his Death Blade on his left.

It was only a few centimeters from Beerus’ chest. It was below Beerus’ line of sight. It should have worked.

So of course it didn’t, the energy sword colliding with a swirling purple barrier that consumed it whole before the edge could so much as graze Beerus’ skin.

Frieza didn’t even know why he was surprised.

Beerus’ grip on his right forearm tightened further. “Are you finished-”

There was a soft thud at their feet.

Beerus’ incredulous stare became a rictus on his face as he slowly glanced down. “… Did you just slice off your _own arm_?”

In response, Frieza kneed him as hard as he could in the stomach.

Beerus didn’t even bother to pretend to notice. “ _Do you know what sparring is_?”

Frieza just hissed at him, straining to absolutely no effect to yank away his captured arm.

“You _did_ threaten his father, Beerus-sama,” Whis said, walking over with his glass of tashi-mead in hand. “You can’t blame him for being angry at you. Although seeing as Frieza-san’s prior combat experience is limited entirely to death matches, I’m pretty sure the answer to your question is no.” He took a thoughtful sip from his glass. “One more thing to work on, I supposed.”

Beerus snorted. “And I stand by the fact that I would like nothing more than to atomize what remains of Cold’s soul-”

Frieza telekinetically hurled a rock into the side of Beerus’ head.

“-But I _won’t_ if you _stop attacking me_.”

Frieza sneered and didn’t relent in straining against Beerus’ hold on his forearm. “I thought this was what you _wanted_ , Beerus-sama.”

Beerus rolled his eyes. “I wanted a spar. A _spar_ , which is a fight for _fun_ , which is not you dashing yourself to pieces in ridiculously self-destructive attempts to kill me. You are down a limb thanks to no effort on my part whatsoever, and we are _literally_ standing in a pool of your blood.”

Frieza glared up at him. “Let go of my arm.”

Beerus did so begrudgingly, though he sneered back, “I should be telling you to thank me for not destroying your father, but I don’t understand why you should care at all.”

“Do you always listen to everything this Sidra fellow tells you?” said Frieza, taking a step back and wrapping the tip of his tail around his broken wrist; as a brace it was useless, but the pressure was grounding anyway. It had been hard to notice in the middle of battle, but his center of balance seemed to be wandering a bit.

… He really had lost a lot of blood.

 “No,” said Beerus, and it took Frieza a few seconds to track that it was in response to Frieza’s rhetorical question. “I usually try to listen to Sidra as little as possible. I meant more in the sense that your father was actively sab- are you fainting?” Beerus turned and looked at Whis. “Whis, is he fainting?”

“I’m not _fainting_ ,” said Frieza, though he had, perhaps, had a less than graceful descent when sitting down.

“He’s not fainting,” Whis said, kneeling next to Frieza. “Though you _are_ going into shock,” he said to Frieza, “And unfortunately my talents don’t extend to limb regeneration.”

“Yes they do,” said Frieza, his head between his knees. “You regrew my tail.”

“You were dead at the time,” said Whis. “That was a slightly different situation.”

Frieza couldn’t think of a response to that.

“Right,” said Whis, placing a hand on Frieza’s shoulder, “I’m taking you back to your ship.”

“Whis-” began Beerus.

“ _Later_ , Beerus-sama,” said Whis.

Frieza was a little vague on the next few minutes. Warp was always disorienting anyway, and cold was beginning to burrow its way into him in a kind of creeping familiarity that made it difficult to concentrate on anything through a nebulous fog of dread.

He had enough awareness to realize that Whis at least deposited him in a chair instead of onto the floor when they arrived back at his quarters on his capital ship, but beyond that it was hard to pay attention to anything but his breathing.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat.

“Just so this becomes a proper learning experience,” said Whis conversationally, “this is the kind of thing that happens when you try to originate a ki technique from a point with broken energy flow. Especially a technique that you don’t actually understand how it works.”

Whis then spent the next several minutes toying with something over by the table, but it wasn’t until he tapped Frieza on the shoulder that Frieza could find the wherewithal to look at him. “While I am impressed with your instinctive grasp on divine ki, it would be wise to release it unless you want to run the significant risk of destroying your ship by accident.”

What?

“You’re still in your golden form, Frieza-san.”

Oh.

Frieza let the energy seep out of him all at once on his next exhale. The lights flickered. Whis looked up. “… It just occurred to me that probably felt _very_ odd-”

Frieza’s door chimed.

“Come in!” Whis called out.

Whoever it was did not come in.

“… The door is locked, Whis-san,” said Frieza.

Whis blinked once before tittering into his hand. “Oh, of course. Silly me.” He flicked a finger towards the door panel, and it beeped once before the door slid open to reveal Dashi.

Who somehow looked worse than Frieza felt, his gaze determinedly focused a few centimeters beyond his commpad and his normally green skin so sallow he was almost yellow.

“What happened to _you_?” asked Frieza.

“My apologies, Frieza-sama,” said Dashi, which apparently took so much effort he actually stopped to take a breath, a slow, shuddering inhale that only returned a fraction of color to his face. “There-” Then he looked up. “What the f-” Dashi clenched his eyes shut for a moment before taking another breath, and when he opened them again he seemed to have regained some of his normal equilibrium. “Forgive me, sire, it’s been- shall I call a doctor?”

Frieza began to wave away the question before remembering that arm currently ended in a stump just below the elbow. “Finish your report first.”

Dashi’s eyes flickered downward to the deck to the left of Frieza’s chair, but eventually he nodded. “Of course. Starting eight minutes ago, there have been ship-wide reports of inexplicable and erratic but universally strong reactions to an unknown stimulus. Mostly panic attacks. Some… not.” He glanced down at his commpad. “They all ended simultaneously at the same time as the power surge, just before I arrived here. I was about to enter an evacuation order for all non-essential personnel while Namasu-san investigated the cause.” He scrolled down a bit on his commpad. “She’s already ruled out an inadvertent infrasonic frequency being generated by vibrations somewhere on the ship, since that isn’t consistent with the fact that it seems to have affected everyone regardless of their range of hearing, but she’s looking into whether it might be a problem with the oxygen generators, perhaps the introduction of some unknown airborne-”

“Oh, your ship’s working fine,” said Whis. “That kind of phenomenon is common when mortals find themselves in close proximity to a god.”

For the first time since entering the room, Dashi looked at Whis. “… May I ask who you are?”

“I’m the person who called you down here,” said Whis, gesturing with Frieza’s apparently pilfered commpad demonstrably. “Now then, Frieza-san has lost approximately forty percent of his blood volume. More than survivable for him to be sure, but certainly not a _comfortable_ state of affairs. But a physician wouldn’t be the most circumspect, so if you could-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frieza rasped out. “There isn’t a person in the universe who doesn’t know I can die.” Even if he did kill anyone stupid enough to mention it.

Whis stared at him thoughtfully before nodding. “Fair enough.” He turned back to Dashi. “So that doctor you mentioned.”

While Dashi busied himself with that, it took Frieza a few seconds to notice that Whis was holding out a cup for him; the design on the side was familiar enough that Frieza had to snort. “Did you really bring that along with us?”

“Well _I’m_ not going to drink it,” said Whis. “I had my blueberry vanilla before we started. Besides, anyone can tell just from listening to you that you’re dehydrated even if you didn’t need the calories.”

Frieza _tsked_ dismissively, but even so he reached out and took the nut butter banana smoothie—his wrist was easy enough to ignore as long as he didn’t bend it—and had already downed half of it by the time Dashi looked up again and said, “Doctor Akebi will be down shortly, Frieza-sama.” Ten minutes later, Frieza had finished the rest of the smoothie and was not terribly successfully fighting off the urge to rest his eyes by the time Akebi actually arrived.

Akebi had not been a member of Frieza’s treatment team after his first resurrection, or a part of the team that rebuilt him after Namek. This was by design, as the sight of any of them filled him with a nearly unstoppable urge to rip their heads off at the neck. Since talented physicians were hard to come by, he had compromised and just awarded them with prestigious medical postings worthy of their skills as far away from him as possible.

Akebi—despite being the chief medical officer on board the ship—had not in fact spoken to him even once, which was how they had lasted seven months in the position. They continued the trend by walking into Frieza’s quarters, taking one glance at him, then saying flatly to Dashi, “Right distal radius displaced intra-articular fracture, stable nasal fracture, left zygomatic arch transverse fracture, left trans-radial amputation, stage four hypovolemic shock with only incomplete hemostasis. He doesn’t need a doctor, he needs to have been in an EGS tank twenty minutes ago.”

“For which a doctor’s authorization is required for something as complicated as limb regeneration,” said Dashi. “And you are the only one I trust with the care of the emperor. It’s why I recommended you in the first place.”

“I despise you with the fire of a thousand suns,” said Akebi, their tone changing not one iota. “I liked this job, and in the course of the past half an hour my department has had to mass order eighty percent of the crew either high-dose anti-anxiety medication or psychiatric referrals. Usually both. And now you’ve gotten me fired. I’ll have to move back to Kuhn. I fucking hate Kuhn.”

“I’m rather fond of the weather, personally,” said Frieza without bothering to fully open his eyes.

“And he’s conscious,” said Akebi, still flatly, before giving the stiffest bow Frieza had ever seen. “My emperor.”

“Doctor,” said Frieza.

“I’m going to put in an order for a full EGS workup with a twelve hour cycle before transferring you to a high-grade sling,” said Akebi. “Your arm will take about seventy-two hours to regenerate, but you should otherwise be cleared from medical by morning.”

“Thank you,” said Frieza.

Akebi bowed again, then left without further comment, though if Frieza’s eyes didn’t mistake him they kicked Dashi in the shin as they walked past.

“Friend of yours?” said Frieza to Dashi.

“… I would appreciate if you didn’t reassign them, Frieza-sama,” said Dashi.

“You shouldn’t, they’re fun!” said Whis.

Dashi’s lips thinned, and he continued on as if Whis hadn’t spoken, “As per the note in your file, Doctor Akebi reconfigured the settings of the tank in the reserve medical bay’s private suite. Its activation sequence should be finished within the next five minutes.” Then he hesitated. “Would-”

“I know where it is,” said Frieza. When Dashi didn’t immediately move, he said more pointedly, “You’re dismissed, Dashi-san.”

Dashi gave a bow—nearly as stiff as Akebi’s—before turning and walking out, the door sliding shut behind him.

There was a moment of silence.

“You can’t stand up, can you,” said Whis.

"Everything grayed out and I started seeing flashes in my periphery five minutes ago,” Frieza admitted. “Standing… may not be wise.”

“You might have said something to the doctor here three minutes ago,” said Whis. “Honestly, you’re even worse than Beerus-sama.” The words were exasperated, but the tone was amused. When Frieza just stared at him, Whis gave a little smirk and continued, “ _Anyway_ , if I’m reading the map on your commpad correctly, the reserve medical bay is seven doors down on the left-”

\--*--

He hated sleeping in healing tanks. The newer ones were better—someone having discovered while he was dead a drug cocktail that allowed for anesthetization without contraindicating the healing liquid, so at least he didn’t have to feel the grinding sensation of his bones setting—but they still-

If there was one thing the last few decades had taught him, it was that getting stronger entailed being endlessly torn apart and rebuilt from the ground up.

(And if you were very, very lucky, the process was voluntary.)

There had hardly been anything left of him after Namek. Not enough to piece together a crown prince of the empire; just a crude facsimile, a golem of jagged metal and putrefying meat, and a poorly constructed one at that. For all the doctors had spoken endlessly about the superiority of their prosthetics to his biological form, they had been flawed and failing even before Earth. The parts were built to channel his ki but couldn’t withstand the force of it; a simple clenched fist would see the fingers pierce straight through the armor to the wires and fuel lines beneath, and more than once he had found himself idly peeling off his own plating as if it were the rind of a fruit.

He was used to being careful with everything but himself. There was no need to take care with something that could not break.

Except he had broken. And broken, and broken, and broken. Namek was the first time, but it was not the last. And he couldn’t forget any of it, at least not for long; the seventeen years of distance shrinking to nothing at a moment’s distraction, the memories always lingering on the edges of his consciousness, waiting for a chance to press in. There were other bulwarks to be found—Whis had not been wrong, sleeping warm helped—but healing tanks had a way of tearing what defenses he had to shreds.

Except he had only just started to cough up a disgusting amalgamation of oil and blood—a mistake in the line hookups by one of the doctors that had resulted in a case of toxic poisoning only two steps away from lethal, that had left him a feverish, twitching mess for weeks afterwards ( _so weak, so **pathetic** , hardly worth keeping alive at all_)—before he found himself sitting next to a coffee table holding a cup of tea, coughing up nothing but a small bite of biscuit that had caught itself uncomfortably in his throat.

“Well,” said Whis, sitting opposite him in a high backed upholstered chair, “Let’s have no more of _that_.”

Frieza’s took a sip of the tea to clear his throat. It was sweet, which seemed apropos with the lilac coloring. “What kind of tea is this?”

“Lavender,” said Whis, peering at him across the table.

“It’s very good,” said Frieza politely, though it was more pungent than he usually liked.

“You aren’t a lucid dreamer at all, are you,” said Whis. “I must say, I am a bit surprised. Most psychics come by the ability naturally.”

“I used to be,” said Frieza, taking another sip of the tea. “I lost the skill after Namek, along with my other psychic abilities. Brain damage.”

“Which has long since been healed,” said Whis. “And you’ve regained your telekinesis.”

Frieza shrugged, taking another sip of tea. “Some lies hold up less well to scrutiny.”

“Your subconscious is much better at being ominous than you are,” said Whis. “I am reading your mind right now and even I don’t know what that means.”

“You can only find something that isn’t there if you know what it looks like,” explained Frieza. “He didn’t consider it important enough to replace.”

“I know you think you’re explaining something,” said Whis, “But you really aren’t.”

“Are those butter cookies?” asked Frieza, shifting his eyes towards a small tea tray on the table.

“… Yes,” said Whis. “Would you like some?”

“No,” said Frieza. “Golems don’t eat.”

“… You’re drinking tea,” said Whis.

“Only to be polite,” said Frieza.

“I wish I entered dreamscapes more,” said Whis. “I have no idea if this is normal.”

“It isn’t,” said Frieza calmly.

Whis looked at him. Frieza looked back.

“Perhaps…” started Whis, then trailed off as Frieza turned his gaze downwards his teacup disinterestedly. Whis sighed. “Frieza-san-” Frieza crushed the teacup in his hand, its remnants dribbling out slowly through his fingers.

Both he and Whis stared at the same pile of ceramic dust making a mess of the carpet.

“Aren’t you going to fix it?” asked Frieza, a little mockingly.

“I appreciate a heavy handed metaphor as much as the next person, Frieza-san,” said Whis, “But while I would love for you to stop breaking things, people aren’t teacups, and in my experience, there is always _something_ worthwhile to salvage.”

“Have you ever tried with someone who wasn’t a god?” asked Frieza.

“Mm,” said Whis, and took a sip of his tea. “No.” His smile at Frieza was eerie for its warmth. “Isn’t it convenient that you are one? Even if you do have all this…” he made a sweeping motion that started with the pile of cup dust but grew to encompass Frieza himself. “Mortal baggage.”

“My apologies,” said Frieza, and even if he had remembered the conversation in the morning, he wouldn’t have known how to read his own tone.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Whis. “You’ll outgrow it eventually. And I can afford to wait.”


	6. Chapter 6

He spent most of the next three days in his rooms. There were no meetings or planetary visits planned, and he tended to work out of his quarters anyway; it wasn’t uncommon for days or even weeks to pass with only Dashi ever seeing him in person, and Frieza wasn’t above taking advantage of the established pattern now.

Except that Whis didn’t consider being down an arm much of an impediment to training, and so he was back on Beerus’ planet the next evening, his left arm encased up to the elbow in an EGS sling and his tail resisting his efforts to not have it twitch with agitation as Whis explained his plan to start training that day with meditation.

“It all comes back to the awareness of self,” said Whis. “You’ve gotten the basics down, but the next step is to extend your focus from your breathing to the movement of your ki.”

“Mm,” said Frieza, his eyes focused over Whis’ head as he scanned the skyline.

Whis sighed. “I asked Beerus-sama to stay away for the next few days, Frieza-san. He’s not going to interrupt us.”

Frieza frowned. Whis squinted at him thoughtfully. “Did you… _want_ to see him?”

“I didn’t bring the bottle of brandy for _you_ ,” said Frieza.

“Rude,” said Whis mildly, though his eyes flickered downwards to the stump of Frieza’s left arm. “I would think after yesterday’s little incident that you might want some distance.”

“He said my father was sabotaging me,” said Frieza.

“I see,” said Whis, which was impressive if true, because Frieza wasn’t sure _he_ did. “Just a moment.” The angel flickered away.

Frieza spent the next few minutes by the patio table busying himself with the task of opening a brandy bottle one-handed. He ended up just pulling the cork out with his teeth before pouring it into the two snifters he had brought along, then seriously considered just downing the rest of the bottle.

He was still considering it when he heard an irritated growl from behind him, “You know I was in the middle of a very nice nap, and I don’t like being interrupted.”

Frieza’s hand convulsed around the bottle, which promptly shattered.

Well. So much for that.

Beerus seemed less sanguine, for whatever reason. “Will you _stop_ that?”

Frieza turned to look at him, and had to stop himself from blinking at the incongruous picture of the Destroyer dressed in nothing but a nightshirt. “My apologies for the interruption, Beerus-sama; when I asked Whis-san about you, I wasn’t aware you were asleep.”

Beerus pointed at him. “That- that isn’t- I don’t _care_ about that.”

Frieza stared at him. “You just said you don’t like it.”

“I _don’t_ ,” said Beerus. “What I like _less_ is all this- cowering and bowing and scraping. You’re a god; act like it.”

“I was taught to be polite to everyone,” said Frieza. And it wasn’t like being a god had stopped Beerus from admonishing him for lack of an honorific back on Earth.

“You were taught a lot of things that were wrong,” said Beerus, walking over to the table and picking up one of the snifters of brandy. “That’s why you wanted to talk to me, isn’t it? About your loser of a father.”

Frieza felt himself stiffen. “He was the emperor of seventy percent of the universe.”

“Yes,” said Beerus, “He was. Which makes how he acted even more pathetic. Forget whatever bullshit he told you about me, he had you running scared from _Majin Buu_.” Beerus barked a laugh. “That stupid fat blob! Had you put in the least amount of effort, you could have been strong enough to annihilate Buu before your voice broke.

“But instead, Cold deliberately stopped you from training at all.” Beerus cocked his head to one side. “I suppose it makes sense. To train for a lifetime, to have ruled his empire unchallenged for thousands of years, only to find himself barely stronger than a newborn baby… No wonder he was terrified.”

“Of _you_ ,” said Frieza.

“No,” said Beerus, his mouth twisting over the rim of the snifter. “I didn’t care about Cold or his little empire, and he knew it. But _you_ were a rival.”

“You’re a liar,” said Frieza, his tail curling tightly around his ankle. “I was his _heir_. If he was actually frightened of me, he would have killed me when I was a child.”

“No,” said Beerus, “He wouldn’t have. He wanted to live, after all, and you said it yourself: _he knew_ _I was watching you_.”

Frieza stilled. Beerus took a sip of his brandy before giving him a smirk. “If you’re looking for a liar here, brat, you should search a little closer to home.”

“I have never hated anyone as much as I hate you,” rasped Frieza.

Beerus frowned, all traces of smug condescension wiped from his expression. “Hey, you’re the one who came looking for the truth. Don’t get angry at me just because you can’t-”

“Beerus-sama, your ramen is ready!”

Beerus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not the time, Whis!”

“I don’t know,” said Whis, landing in front of Beerus with his back to Frieza, his tone overly cheerful. “A short break might be good for everyone’s tempers; I really can’t afford for Frieza-san to lose another limb at this point in his training.”

Frieza couldn’t actually see Beerus with Whis blocking the view, but the Destroyer’s tone was begrudgingly acquiescent as he replied, “… Fine. Ten minute snack break.” Then he left.

There was a moment of silence.

“Please go away, Whis-san,” said Frieza.

“Your father did love you, you know,” said Whis. “At least by the end.”

“I don’t care,” said Frieza. There was no point; King Cold was long dead, and no one would be bringing him back.

Whis turned to look at him. His voice contained nothing but clinical curiosity as he asked, “Then why are you crying?”

He hadn’t even noticed he was. “I suppose it’s upsetting that the entirety of my existence has hinged on the charity of a god who despises me.”

Whis sighed. “Beerus-sama doesn’t… would you believe he actually likes you?”

Frieza stared at him blankly.

Whis sighed again. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Frieza said nothing.

“You look like someone who could use a glass of brandy,” said Whis.

Frieza could use several glasses of brandy. Or a full bottle. Which was why he wasn’t having any. “You can have it.”

“Oh, so you _did_ bring it for me,” said Whis.

Frieza scrubbed at his eyes and didn’t answer.

“He just sees a lot of himself in you,” said Whis. “So he was… disappointed, when you failed to live up to your initial promise. He’s waited a very long time for someone like you.”

Frieza snorted. “Son Goku-san-”

“Was a nice surprise,” said Whis. “As was Vegeta-san. But they’ll be dead in just a few centuries,” Frieza nearly corrected him—they didn’t even have that long, no Saiyan had ever lived past one hundred and sixty—before remembering he didn’t actually care, “and with no offense intended to their extraordinary accomplishments, they have only a fraction of your potential.”

Frieza narrowed his eyes at Whis, which for some reason caused the angel to giggle. “You know, for someone who is so self-conscious about your place in the universe, you do an amazingly consistent job of underestimating yourself. You said it yourself: you achieved godhood after training only _four months_ , with no help from anyone at all. In all my years of existence, I’ve only ever known one other being to match such a feat.”

“And who might that be?” said Frieza.

In response, Whis smiled before turning to look demonstratively in the direction of Beerus’ temple.

“Of course he did,” said Frieza.

“Do forgive him if he’s been a bit harsh,” said Whis. “Beerus-sama lacks any frame of reference for a relationship that doesn’t involve at least _some_ antagonism, and he actually has been trying with you.”

“Really,” said Frieza flatly.

“… So he may be bad at it,” said Whis.

“He told me my father wanted to murder me in my infancy,” said Frieza.

“So he may be _very_ bad at it,” said Whis.

“Why does he even care?” asked Frieza. “I’ve done everything he’s asked. My feelings should be irrelevant.”

“I suppose Beerus-sama wants a friend,” said Whis.

For a few seconds, Frieza could only stare at the angel in disbelief. “… He’s the _God_ of _Destruction_.”

“He was mortal too, once,” said Whis. Then he raised an eyebrow at Frieza. “Besides, it’s lonely at the top, you know?”

“I don’t have Beerus’ asinine desire for a peer,” Frieza sneered.

“No,” Whis agreed, “In that respect, you and Beerus-sama are very different. He at least has the self-awareness to recognize how isolated he is. You just spend days alone in your rooms, become visibly uncomfortable whenever anyone gets within two meters of you, completely neglect your own bodily needs in favor of training habits so extreme that they cross the line into self-harm, and are so incapable of recognizing how miserable you are that your depression manifests as physical illness.”

“My, you do think very little of me, don’t you,” said Frieza.

“But I do think of you,” said Whis with a cheery smile.

Frieza actually had to choke off a laugh—somehow Whis’ sheer audacity always caught him off guard—to which in response Whis snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “See? Didn’t that feel good?”

“Ah yes, nothing I love more than being insulted,” said Frieza dryly.

“You _do_ , though,” said Whis. “No, no, don’t look at me like that. You enjoy conversation! The only person you actually _like_ on your crew is the also the only one who doesn’t fear you, who jokes with you. Do you feel that is a coincidence?”

“I feel as though you have been stalking me,” said Frieza.

“And now you’re just deliberately deflecting,” said Whis. “Have you ever actually thought about what makes you happy?”

What an odd question. “Why would I?”

“I don’t even know where to begin with how disturbing that is as an answer,” said Whis. “But we’ll work on your pathological inability to self-reflect at a later time. The simple truth is that you _like_ being around people who are unafraid of you, as long as they don’t wish you harm.”

Whis’ constant desire to explain Frieza to himself was always tedious, but never more so than now. “You would be _amazed_ at how short a list that is.”

“I really wouldn’t,” said Whis. “You are an intergalactic dictator, after all, and a prickly one at that. But please believe me when I say that Beerus-sama, for all that he has done in the past, _is_ a name on that list. And he has other virtues. Immensely talented, as I said earlier, with the stubbornness to match. Clever when it suits him. He does have a temper, but I’ve never known him to seriously hold a grudge either. He’s even good company, when he’s not in one of his moods.” Whis raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re both going to be around for quite a while. I imagine it will get tiresome to constantly be expecting him to hurt you.”

“For someone you claim doesn’t wish me harm, expecting Beerus to hurt me has been fairly predictive,” said Frieza coldly.

“Excepting your one sparring match, he hasn’t actually done you injury since the Tournament,” said Whis.

“He grabs me _all the time_ ,” said Frieza.

“Your touch aversion-” began Whis.

“Not everything you find inconvenient about me is something that needs to be fixed,” snapped Frieza. “Beerus can’t treat me like his _toy_ and then get to be surprised that I keep expecting him to _break_ me.”

“You weren’t very nice to your possessions as a child, were you,” said Whis.

A haze passed over Frieza’s vision. It made it difficult to remember the sheer pointlessness of trying to tear Whis’ throat out.

Something of his thought processes must have been conveyed by his expression, as Whis winced almost as soon as he finished speaking. “That- may have been a bit trivializing- Frieza-san!”

Leaving would have felt a lot more satisfying if Frieza thought he’d have the least chance of stopping Whis should he choose to follow. The fact that the angel didn’t was thus more a condescension than any kind of victory.

\--*--

He got about thirty seconds to himself screaming incoherently into the lake and an additional five minutes sitting on the edge brooding over getting stranded thousands of lightyears away from his empire’s territorial boundaries before Beerus landed three meters behind him balancing a covered tray on one hand, having at some point changed out of his nightshirt into his usual attire. “Whis tried to have a conversation with you about feelings, I see.”

He felt far too wrung out to have any kind of proper reaction to the Destroyer’s arrival, or to the idea that Whis had relayed in detail the contents of their conversation. “You spoke to him, then.”

Beerus chuckled. “Yes, but I would know anyway. My temple abuts the lake, and screaming incoherently is always what I end up doing whenever Whis delves too deeply into trying to understand pesky mortal emotions- or perhaps I should say _non-angel_ emotions. Most gods don’t go cross-eyed when you try to explain to them the concept of _unhappy_.”

Considering he had nothing to say in response to that, Frieza just turned back to the lake.

There were a few seconds of silence before Beerus cleared his throat and said, “ _Anyway_ , Whis made far too much tonkotsu ramen for me to eat just as a snack, so…” he walked closer and placed the tray next to Frieza in the grass, pulling off the cover as he rose.

Frieza didn’t look away from the lake. “I am not hungry,” he said. “Thank you.”

There were a few more seconds of silence. “Okay,” said Beerus in what sounded like a carefully measured tone, “Is that ‘I want you to go away but I am incapable of saying anything directly unless I am literally spitting with rage’ or an actual ‘I am not hungry’?”

“Beerus-sama,” said Frieza, still not looking away from the lake, “You can take it for granted that I am never hungry, and I would never presume to tell you where you should and should not go.”

“For the love of me,” Beerus burst out, “You have no idea how much I wish there was a cheat code I could enter for you.”

 “… That means absolutely nothing to me,” said Frieza.

Beerus sputtered. “I- you- I _refuse_ to believe you don’t know computer games are, I have several published by the Planet Trade Organization.”

“I am well aware of interactive entertainment media both in regards to its market force within my empire and its development as constrained by intellectual property law,” said Frieza. “I don’t _play_ them. I don’t understand why _you_ would play them, you’re a god with a servant who can transport you anywhere in the multiverse.” He paused as if to take a breath, but really to give Beerus time to contradict what was, in truth, nothing but a guess. When Beerus stayed silent, Frieza forced himself to continue on, casually, as if another of his suppositions of the construction of reality hadn’t collapsed like sand underneath his feet, “Why bother with a simulation of something you can experience in reality?”

“They’re not all simulations,” said Beerus. “A lot of them take place on worlds that don’t exist, that could _never_ exist. They’re specu- you should- are you sure you don’t want any ramen? It’s _very_ good.”

Frieza looked down at the one hand he currently had remaining to him. It was shaking, slightly. “I probably do,” he allowed, finally turning to look at the steaming bowl. The broth was slightly more opaque than what he recalled of the last time he had seen ramen. “What’s tonkotsu?”

“Pork bone broth,” said Beerus, seating himself at the lake edge a couple of meters to Frieza’s right.

“Hm,” said Frieza. There were two lacquered sticks next to the bowl that he could only assume were some kind of eating utensils, but there was no eating elegantly in his current situation even if he did know how to use them, so he forewent the sticks on the tray in favor of picking up the bowl by the rim one-handed and just pouring it into his mouth. It was a much thicker, meatier flavor than the miso had been—not exactly the lightest fare—but like nearly everything Whis seemingly manifested from nothing, it was absolutely delicious. A relatively pleasant distraction when he desperately needed any kind at all.

He actually had to remind himself to slow down; even after training under Whis for several months it was still his habit to consume everything as quickly as possible to get the unpleasant experience of eating over with, so the bowl was nearly half empty by the time he forced himself to bite off the ends of the noodles and place the bowl back on the tray, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

He could see Beerus staring at him out of his periphery. Frieza had a split-second of self-consciousness about his abysmal manners the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his teens before Beerus said abruptly, “I’m sorry your father was an asshole.”

Frieza turned his head to stare at Beerus incredulously. “… You’re apologizing to me about my father.”

Beerus winced, slightly. “Okay, so I might- also, be an asshole-”

“Beerus-sama,” said Frieza, “My father was not an ‘asshole.’ He was a monster. He killed nearly one hundred billion sapient beings over the course of his life, starting with the total annihilation of his own race. He was a tyrant who spent his first millennium conquering his way across the universe and the next seven ruling it. And I am _very_ much his son. Speaking purely in terms of morality, murdering me in the cradle would have been the most justified thing he ever did. If you feel apologies are owed for you not atomizing my father at the early stages, why are you giving them to _me_?”

“Because I don’t _care_ about those other people,” said Beerus. “Obviously.”

Frieza blinked. Beerus took one look at his face and chortled so hard he nearly asphyxiated himself. “You- you go on and on about me being the Destroyer, but you talk about _morality_? You think I give a shit about the people Cold killed? About the people _you_ killed? For the love of me, nearly a third of your personal death toll can be attributed directly _to_ me. Your father was a monster. _You’re_ a monster. So what? What do you think _I_ am? I killed more people in the week after I woke up three years ago than _you_ have in your entire _life_. I’ve killed more people than currently _exist_ in this universe.

“And you know what? Your father was _still_ an asshole, and I am _really_ glad he’s dead.”

“ _I’m_ an asshole,” said Frieza, unsure exactly of how he had gotten to the point of insulting himself through vulgarity but finding himself already committed.

“Well, yes,” said Beerus, “But I like _you_.”

This conversation had taken such a left turn that Frieza wasn’t sure they were on the same planet anymore. “ _Why?_ ”

“How the fuck is your self-esteem so terrible,” said Beerus. “I’m not _listing out_ the reasons I like you.”

Considering Whis had literally listed out all of the reasons Frieza should like _Beerus_ , that seemed a bit rich, but looking at Beerus’s irritated, oblivious scowl, it occurred to Frieza that Beerus had no idea that exchange had even happened.

For the purported attendant of Beerus, Whis’ agenda was surprisingly opaque. But then, Frieza supposed he really didn’t know the reason for the existence of angels; their mythology was hopelessly intertwined with those of the Destroyers, but their actions during the Tournament pointed clearly to a purpose beyond merely playing servant to jumped-up former mortals, no matter how powerful.

What that purpose _was_ , however, Frieza probably had about as much hope of finding out with any alacrity as he did of beating Whis in a fight, so the uneasiness at the immensity of what he Did Not Know just sat there, in the pit of his stomach, right on top of the ramen. There were beings out there who could destroy his universe with a snap of their fingers, beings who he _could not kill_ —any vulnerability they might have had to the Super Dragon Balls an obvious façade after their machinations for the Tournament were revealed—could not even hope to _understand_ , whose eternal childishness and capriciousness put plain the fact that they had not even a passing familiarity with mortality or weakness. And the angels would just stand by, and watch, and _smile_ , their true masters plain even if their motivations were not.

Masters that Son Goku, based on his actions at the end of the Tournament, was apparently _friends with_ , because _of course_ he was. Never had a being waivered so clearly between brilliance, stupidity and madness as the Saiyan from Earth-

“I can’t tell if your default expression just makes you look like you’re having an existential crisis or if you’re constantly having an existential crisis,” said Beerus, idly picking at his teeth with one claw.

“I’ve learned a lot about the insignificance of my place in the multiverse in the past eight months,” said Frieza. “Pray forgive me if I am occasionally reminded of it.”

Beerus rolled his eyes. “You were always insignificant. Why should the existence of the Omni-Kings and other universes change things one way or another?”

“Thinking I am the third most powerful being in existence is vastly different than not even _thirtieth_ ,” Frieza retorted, “Especially considering Majin Buu was locked away and you, at least, are a being with understandable motivations. Should the Zenos or any of the angels choose to destroy us-”

Beerus was frowning at him, but not in a way that seemed particularly directed at Frieza. “Why would they?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ they?” said Frieza. “You seemed easily convinced before that they were quite happy to destroy eight out of twelve universes for no better reason than… what, exactly?”

“… They thought there were too many,” said Beerus, reluctantly.

“Too many for _what_?” asked Frieza.

“I have no idea,” said Beerus. “But… there used to be eighteen.”

Frieza sneered even as he fought something like a shudder. “And I’m sure those several trillion people were comforted by their complete inability to prevent their own erasure because a pair of colorful _brats_ wanted to downsize-”

Beerus slapped a hand over Frieza’s mouth so quickly that he could actually feel the bruises start to bloom under Beerus’ fingers. “Don’t. _Ever_. Speak of the Omni-Kings that way.”

Frieza tried to pull Beerus’ grip off his jaw. When the yanking on Beerus’ wrist failed to elicit anything but a tightening of Beerus’ fingers on his face, Frieza settled for glaring at him.

Beerus glared back, his acid yellow eyes less than ten centimeters from Frieza’s own and his pupils narrowed into slits. “They are the Kings of All. They are omniscient, omnipotent, and the original once destroyed a galaxy inhabited by fifty billion sapient beings in a fit of pique because I accidentally slept through a hide and seek game he organized. He only didn’t erase this universe entirely because Shin gifted him with a triple sunset as an apology. For fuck’s sake, _don’t insult them_.

“Do you understand?” When Frieza just continued glaring at him, Beerus shook him a little. “ _Do you-_ ”

Frieza bit down as hard as he could.

It was an awkward angle, so he really only caught the meat between Beerus’ thumb and index finger, and he certainly didn’t break the skin, but it was enough to cause Beerus to yelp and fall back a meter. “You little-”

“You want direct, Beerus-sama?” said Frieza, still glaring. “Don’t grab me. Don’t _touch_ me. I don’t like it.”

“Were you listening to a word I said?” asked Beerus, shaking out his hand and blowing on the bite ineffectually.

“I’ll add the Zenos to the list of fickle sadists who would happily destroy me if I don’t prove sufficiently entertaining or pliable to their whims,” said Frieza. “It is _surprisingly_ long. No wonder Son Goku-san is no longer concerned with me; I have been outclassed in so _many_ ways.”

“Goku doesn’t have the attention span to be concerned with anything but food and combat for more than five minutes,” said Beerus, but he was back to frowning, his own glare receded to something more thoughtful. “But now that I _have_ made you angry, I might as well ask again: Do you want me to go away?”

The problem with Whis, Frieza thought, looking away from Beerus back towards the lake, was that for all the angel’s understanding of mortals was piecemeal and erratic at best, he was right about people as often as he was wrong.

The truth of the matter was that Frieza _did_ want Beerus to go away, intensely. Beerus was sitting far too close, and he kept on grabbing at Frieza, and it was impossible to forget that Frieza could do nothing about either or anything else Beerus decided to do.

All of this was true. Except it was also true that Frieza wouldn’t feel any better if Beerus _did_ leave, if Beerus stopped existing entirely. He might have, once, when he still lived in ignorance of the other eleven Destroyer gods, thirteen angels (or nineteen, perhaps, wherever the other six had gone), four Omni-King attendants, two Omni-Kings, and smattering of other mortals-turned-gods who could smear him into a fine paste.

Beerus at least was ostensibly on their side, for whatever that was worth. Would fight to keep Universe Seven existing and at least some of its inhabitants alive. Frieza could not even say with certainty that the same would be true of Whis—that he would not stand by, and watch, and _smile_ as his universe turned to ash—which meant that Beerus was the most powerful ally Universe Seven had. When they inevitably faced future dangers beyond any one being’s ability to handle alone, it would do Frieza no favors to have rebuffed his universe’s Destroyer.

More immediately, for all of Beerus’ superficial interest in Frieza giving a truthful answer, Frieza had never met a single person of any power who liked to be denied. When faced with a being of impassable strength, if there was even a slim hope of appeasement, the only wisdom was ever in compliance.

Not that he’d ever been good at recognizing those situations, as a history of dismemberment and drawn out, humiliating deaths made clear.

He had never been good at lying either. He had never needed to be. So he said nothing, and tried not to resent how his life had recently become a never ending sequence of capitulation. His anger had never done him any favors. If he let one more thing start to fester, he was liable to begin to rot.

“… So you do hate me, then,” said Beerus, his tone almost aggressively disinterested.

Frieza closed his eyes. “Please don’t take it personally, Beerus-sama. I hate everyone who is stronger than me.”

“Not everyone stronger than you wants to kill you,” said Beerus.

Frieza choked off a laugh. “Beerus-sama, anyone with any sense at all wants to kill me.” And there were things nearly as a bad as death, and other things that were worse. There were many ways to suffer, especially if you were stupid enough to hold onto something as pointless as your pride.

“So train with me and get stronger then,” said Beerus. When Frieza turned and looked at him, Beerus’ grin showed every one of his sharp teeth. “The angels and Omni-Kings don’t care about anything that doesn’t threaten the multiverse,” an assertion that rang confident and, to Frieza’s ears, so absolutely hollow that he wondered why Beerus bothered, until he realized Beerus was trying to be _comforting_ , “and I’m the most powerful of the Destroyer Gods. A few millennia with me, and it won’t matter at all what anyone else _wants_.”

“Except you,” said Frieza pointedly, considering and then immediately discarding the idea of calling out Beerus on his lie. To do so would be pointless; considering how the Destroyer’s eyes had constricted when Frieza mocked the Zenos, there was no reassurance Beerus could give that Frieza would believe.

“Well, yeah,” said Beerus. “But don’t try to kill me again and I think we’ll get along just fine.”

Frieza found himself smirking despite himself. “I think attempted murder is a relatively mild statement of displeasure considering your attendant can bring people back from the dead.”

“Says _you_ ,” said Beerus, lifting his arm like he was about to give Frieza a shove before seeming to think better of it and redirecting his hand to toy with the lacquered sticks on the tray. “Try getting stabbed sometime and see how _you_ like it.”

Frieza stared at Beerus and silently held up the stump of his left arm.

“Considering you fainted like ten seconds later, you’re just making my point for me,” said Beerus.

“I did not _faint_ ,” said Frieza.

“I can call it ‘collapsing in agony’ if it makes you feel better,” said Beerus, his tone so deliberately provocative that Frieza just rolled his eyes.

“And what shall we call that fit you threw over my father? ‘Stomping around like an ill-tempered toddler,’ perhaps?”

“Well he _did_ take away one of my toys,” said Beerus, suddenly leaning far, far too close. “Which I’ll have you know I am _very_ nice to. In case you were worried.”

Frieza was accustomed to freezing around Beerus. Most of the time it was easily attributable to fear. Confusion was an emotion he associated more Whis, so he had to swallow a few times, his mouth unexpectedly dry—people didn’t get this close to him unless they were trying to kill him, that had been a truth for his entire life, but Beerus was just _staring_ at him, strangely expectant _—_ before he managed, “What-”

“Beerus-sama! Frieza-san!”

Beerus hissed, an exhalation of breath Frieza was near enough to feel brush against the lower half of his face, before pulling away and floating to his feet. “Not the time, Whis!”

“But I brought apology dango,” said Whis plaintively as he landed nearby, holding up four sticks skewering a series of glazed round dumplings.

“We’ve already-” began Beerus, before he sighed, visibly deflating. “What kind.”

“Mitarashi,” said Whis, handing one of the skewers to Beerus. “They’re not too sweet,” Whis continued, holding out another of the skewers towards Frieza, “And the glaze is soy sauce. I know you like soy sauce, Frieza-san.”

Beerus already had two of the dumplings in his mouth, chewing around a faintly blissful expression. “You’re forgiven.”

“They’re not an apology to _you_ ,” said Whis, still holding out to the skewer towards Frieza expectantly, who took it only after the angel’s expression had grown so artfully mournful that Frieza felt himself becoming embarrassed by proxy. Whis’ face immediately brightened, and he turned back towards Beerus, continuing blithely, “You know they’d be anko if they were.”

“You’re forgiven anyway,” said Beerus, shoving the rest of his dango into his mouth. “So were you and Frieza actually planning on training today, or was he just here for breakfast?”

“Meditation training, yes,” said Whis, taking a bite out of one of the dango himself as he looked at Beerus slyly out of the corner of his eye. “If you wish, you could always-”

“Not a chance, Whis,” said Beerus, licking the last of the glaze from his fingers. “I put in my time, as you well know.”

“Of course, Beerus-sama,” said Whis with an exaggeratedly obsequious nod. “In that case-”

“Hey Frieza,” said Beerus, “Go back to your usual training spot with Whis, will you? There’s something I need to talk to my attendant about before you two get started.”

“Of course, Beerus-sama,” said Frieza, mirroring Whis’ tone exactly.

“And never do that again,” said Beerus, not looking away from Whis. “It’s bad enough when Whis does it, I don’t need both of you sassing me.”

Frieza smirked. “Of course, Beerus-sa-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” growled Beerus, “Just _go_ already, you brat.”

Frieza did, not actually caring much about whatever trivial duty Beerus wanted to pawn off on Whis this week, but he wasn’t quite out of hearing before Beerus hissed, “I can’t _believe_ you-!”

“Too fast, Beerus-sama,” said Whis, _sotto voce_. “Believe it or not, I was doing you a favor.”

“You have no right to decide that,” said Beerus, at which point Frieza flew out of range, not seeing the point in eavesdropping on yet another unintelligible argument about Beerus’ Destroyer duties. He might have been more worried about Whis twisting Beerus back into one of his foul moods, but somewhere in the last five minutes his subconscious had apparently discarded Beerus as an actual threat.

Perhaps it should have months ago, but then, it had always been easier to focus on what was in front of him instead of the more distant danger he could not entirely grasp.


End file.
